The Error of Judgment
by Ikuko
Summary: The shock of sudden death of Mr. Hale crushes Mr. Bell, rendering him unable to bring the sad news to Margaret himself. He is forced to delegate the terrible duty to the only one he can entrust it: his friend and tenant Mr. Thornton.
1. Letter from Oxford

First of all, big thanks to Kayran, who was so kind to beta this part for me. Every time you are NOT annoyed by a wrong verb form or awkward expression – it is her doing.

I have some reservations about this story. First of all, starting a new one before finishing the lastis not really a a good thing to do. But it looks like you guys are not much into "That Woman!", so let's see how this one goes. I am not sure that a story like this one should exist at all, so don't hesitate to tell me if you think it shouldn't. I won't tell you anything new if I say that reviews can motivate and demotivate authors.

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******The Error of ****Judgement**

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By Ikuko.

Part one. Letter from Oxford.

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___The servant who entered his room in the morning,__  
____received no answer to his speech; drew near the bed, and saw the__  
____calm, beautiful face lying white and cold under the ineffaceable__  
____seal of death. The attitude was exquisitely easy; there had been__  
____no pain-no struggle. The action of the heart must have ceased as__  
____he lay down._

___Mr. Bell was stunned by the shock;_  
___-Wallis, pack up a_  
___carpet-bag for me in five minutes. Here have I been talking. Pack_  
___it up, I say. I must go to Milton by the next train.'_

___The bag was packed, the cab ordered._

But just as Wallis brought the bag in, the room tilted around Mr. Bell, his legs gave way under him and he collapsed on the floor. Wallis, terrified by the state of his master, dropped the bag on the floor and run to get Dr. Forbes.

It took some time for Mr. Bell to recall who and where he was. The grief was the next thing he remembered. Poor Hale. They had just talked last night, how could it be possible that he is gone! Poor Margaret! What would become of her!

Mr. Bell tried to cry out, but no articulated words came. He saw the old face of Dr. Forbes, leaning over him, saying something he could not quite understand. The words reached him as a strange jumble through the thick cotton wool in his head.

But slowly, painfully, he began to recover. The world stopped spinning and tilting on it's axes; the words began form, though with great difficulty. He can could not feel his left hand and foot, or the left part of his face for that matter. Dr. Forbes shook his head dolefully. He knew it was coming, but hoped that his old friend and patient still had some months, if not years. But the shock of losing his oldest friend was a horrible blow to Mr. Bell. All Dr. Forbes could do now was to wait for the inevitable.

Bell was desperately attempting to speak, forcing his disobedient lips into forming the words one by one.

'Wallis… get… Dennis… will'

'What will you do, Mr. Bell?' Willis asked, puzzled.

'No… Need… To make… a will…'

'Dennis. Mr. Dennis, the attorney, he leaves next door, I believe' supplied Dr. Forbes.

Scared Wallis stared back at Dr. Forbes, unsure if it was safe to leave his master even for the moment; but at further urging from Mr. Bell he turned and ran out of the room.

Dr. Forbes patted Bells hand. There was not much he could do now. He hoped with all his heart that Dennis would be found soon. There was no telling how fast the situation would progress, and Bell was desperate. Fortunately, Wallis returned in a few minutes with the short plump man, carrying a well-worn leather bag.

The new comer looked at the scene suspiciously. He recognized Dr. Forbes and his patient, but the state of the latter was so pitiful that Mr. Dennis was not sure that his services could be possibly required.

'Is he really able to make a will in this state of his?' he asked the doctor.

'He can talk with difficulty, but he is perfectly lucid, I can vouch for that, at least for now. He also has the use of the right side of his body. But there is no telling how his condition will change from now on. If you want my honest opinion, if Mr. Bell is to make his last will,he better do it now.'

Mr. Bell's pale face was now covered with red spots; he seemed angry that his fitness of mind was doubted. He once again started to say something incoherently, but realized that it was not helping his case. He started afresh, speaking carefully, and enunciating every word with a desperate distinction, relaying on nods and one-hand gestures as much as on words to convey his meaning. Yes. He wanted to make a will. Yes, he had full capacity of his mind. No, he would not like to postpone it. Yes, they were to write it now, please. Yes, he had an heir in mind. He wished to leave all his worldly possessions to his god-daughter, Miss Hale, presently of Crampton, Northern Milton, Darkshire, daughter of his old friend Reverend Richard Hale. Yes, Dr. Forbes would witness that the will was made legally.

It took Mr. Bell better part of half an hour to make himself understood and his wishes recorded properly. Mr. Dennis shook his head more than once while composing the simple testament for his new client, but there was no real ground for objections. Mr. Bell was speaking as sensibly as any other, if somewhat thickly through the lisp as he laboriously forced his unwilling lips and tongue to his will. He made sure that the name and the address of his beneficiary was scrupulously recorded before leaning back on the pillows and smiling lopsidedly:

'Thornton is in for a surprise... But he will be glad of it, in the end. Unless he is more fool than I think he is. She will bring him a nice little nest egg.'

If Mr. Dennis was a little puzzled by this, he did not show it and returned to the papers. That business was quickly settled and Mr. Dennis was bowed out of the room by Dr. Forbes.

The good doctor returned to his prostrate friend, who was now trying to articulate something new. Once again, Dr. Forbes had to decipher his intent from words, guessing half of the time the meaning and getting an impatient nod of approval. A letter. Bell could write, but his hand was still weak and shaking. Yes, he wanted Dr. Forbes to write for him. In the state he was now, he could not go and tell Margaret the melancholy news about her father by himself, but it needed to be done, and be done by a friend. Yes. It would be impossible to write such news to her directly. must not learn of her father's passing from a formal and cold piece of paper. Someone must tell her gently. Someone... There is Mr. Thornton. Yes. Forbes was to write to Mr. Thornton, under Mr. Bell's slow and laboured dictation.

…...

Mr. Thornton awoke that Wednesday morning with a heavy heart. His business dealings were looking more hopeless by the day; for every success he won in a desperate battle, there was a loss coming from a new direction. His travel to Havre, which was undertaken under the hope of getting new buyers, proved to be fruitless. The only bright spot of this trip, his stolen, guilty pleasure of visiting Helstone on his way back had probably given him more pain than joy. The country that brought Margaret to the world was as bright, beautiful, serene and remote as Margaret herself. The trip had made him understand her better. It was no great wonder that she had difficulty accepting her new home! And no wonder that her removal from that wonderful village to a grim place like Milton had killed her mother. The visit to Helstone explained many things, but most importantly, it permitted Mr. Thornton to partake, in this small way, in something that was her former life, even if she herself would never be his.

The morning post brought an unexpected letter from his landlord, though the address was written in unfamiliar hand. For a moment, Mr. Thornton looked at the letter apprehensively; there was no business expected for now, the rent was payed for many months ahead. His own financial troubles were not endangering Mr.'s Bell interests in any way for now. But of course Mr. Bell used his influence with Mr. Thornton without reserve, and to be honest, with little consideration for the trouble he gave his tenant. Yet Bell was as close to a friend as a landlord could be, and Mr. Thornton always submitted to his appeals willingly.

These musings were arrested by a shock he received upon opening the letter. Written mostly in the same hand as the address, it brought in its few lines news of new tragedy: Mr. Hale died suddenly in his sleep, and Mr. Bell was so overcome by losing his friend that he had fallen grievously ill himself.

Mr. Hale dead! Thornton could not believe it, it was impossible, the old gentleman was doing so much better after the death of his wife... Poor Mr. Hale! His friend was gone, just like his own father, so suddenly, so unfair... The only person who shared his love for philosophy, the only one who had sympathized with his tastes. There will never again be any more readings of classics, no more discussions of the merits of Plato and Aristotle, no more tea drinking in the invitingly warm little sitting room.

Margaret! How could he forget! In his grief over his friend he forgot the one that had been so perpetually in his thoughts. His mind was still full of thoughts of Margaret growing up there,in Helstone, as a happy carefree child; and this reality of the girl who was now tormented by seemingly endless suffering, the contrast was unbearable to him.

He returned to the pursuit of his letter. The letter was written in unfamiliar hand except for the signature, which was quite shaky. In disjointed, incoherent sentences it begged Mr. Thornton to assist Margaret to the best of his ability, as she was left so utterly alone and friendless, explaining that the only family she had left was now either in Spain or Greece. The letter veered around at that point, telling him to bring Margaret to her father's funeral on Wednesday, if she was fit to come. Then it returned to her pitiful situation, rambling upon the need of finding her friends who would be willing to take her in.

Mr. Thornton knew that he would wish for nothing better than to be such friend himself, but he resolutely squashed this thought. She did not want him. He would not force his case now when she is so helpless. He will would do his duty, as any disinterested friend would. He will would break the news gently to her, and console with her as far as it is possible for such a disinterested friend. He would make sure that she is was managing reasonably well and had all necessary help. Yes. he would do this, as a friend.

He looked at the date on the letter. It was Wednesday already, but the letter was dated last Friday. Likely the servant entrusted with the letter was too careless or too distraught with the illness of his master and the death of his friend and forgot to post it for several days. Miss Hale would not be able to come, the funeral had started an hour ago already.

So, the funeral of his friend was taking place right now, somewhere in Oxford, far away from the grave of his wife and his living daughter, among strangers, if at all attended. Poor Hale. Poor Mr Bell, if he understood the tone of the letter correctly, he was in no shape to attend the funeral himself. Poor Margaret! At least there he could provide some help. But what would become of her! Orphaned, penniless, and all alone in the world, how was she to sustain herself?

The very thought of bringing such news to her turned his stomach. Yet it had to be done, and done properly. It would probably take time, and it could not be rushed. He wrote a few quick lines of directions for his overseer. The mills were running at half capacity, Williams should be able to carry on without too much supervision. Mr Thornton's time was as short as ever, they would have to manage on their own for today. He returned home to change into a deep mourning. He explained briefly the news to his surprised mother and left for Crampton with a heavy heart.


	2. Iron and Paper

Here is the second part. Awesome Kayran deserves a medal for being such an incredible beta. Tell me if I am overdoing it, angst is not really my thing, but there is no way around it in the canon situation of the moment.

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**The Error of Judgement.**

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By Ikuko

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Part two. Iron and Paper.

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He walked the familiar path to Crampton as the mill's smoke slowly replaced the dissipating fog of the gray morning. It was probably better not to think about the task ahead. He would talk to her as gently as he could when he got there but now the thoughts of telling Margaret the news of the death of her father were pulling heavily at him, gnawing at his resolution.

By the time he reached the house he needed all his will to uphold his determination. He raised his hand to knock on the door but instead placed the palm of his hand flat against the door panel, holding it for a moment as if trying to sense what was behind it. He took another sharp breath, gathering his will, and knocked. Then his hand slid down to the handle, almost caressing it, gathering the support from the cold metal.

He waited, but the house remained quiet. Was she away? It was still rather early. What should he do? Wait here? He was beginning to feel absurd after braving the feat of knocking at the empty house.

Irresolute, he stood on the steps, looking out at the bustle on the street with unseeing eyes. Should he wait? How to act when she comes? How should he say it to her? How would she react? Can he witness her tears without overstepping the bounds he set for himself?

He was startled at the sound behind him. The door lock clanked, opening. He cursed the slowness of the maid. He got up hastily, preparing what to say to the servant about his unexpected visit but there was no servant.

Margaret opened the door herself, blinking at the morning light.

'Mr Thornton!' Her full lips slightly parted in astonishment. He noticed that she was wearing the old light dress with a lot of pink in it and a large prosaic apron.

Of course she was surprised. He had not been to the house in so long! Mr. Thornton could read her face like a book, her expression revealed confusion, shyness, and what was that? Looked almost like a hope... No. It could not be. She was simply caught at an awkward moment, she was not expecting visitors at this moment, much less he, who had not come for so long while her father was waiting for him. Certainly his coming now would appear strange to her.

In another moment she mastered her expression into a civil, unreadable smile and invited him in with as much self-possession as was customary to her. She stepped back, inviting him in in gesture rather than in words.

He followed her in the tiny sitting room, but did not take the offered seat. It was his turn to be at loss of the world. Instead, he let his eyes wander over the quirky and cosy room he had not seen for so long.

Margaret made a valiant attempt for conversation, seeing his obvious discomfort.

'Mr. Thornton, you would excuse me for not receiving you properly. Unfortunately I am all alone today. Father has not yet returned from Oxford but he will be glad to hear that you dropped by for a visit.'

'Margaret,' he finally said hoarsely. She was clearly surprised at such intimate, emotional address from him.

He tried to start again, once more repeating her name, the only thing that was coming naturally to his lips:

'Margaret.'

He came closer and covered her hand with his, unaware how intimate this simple gesture was at that moment. There was a momentary strain in her arm but she did not take her hand away. She looked up, almost blushed but then grew alarmed at the look of sadness and pity in his eyes. She noticed his sombre attire and was struck by a sickening suspicion.

'Mr. Thornton?' she did not continue, afraid of what he could say.

Still holding his hand on hers, he slid his fingers under the palm of her hand, trying to find support in the soft warmth that was there.

'Margaret...' he started for the third time. 'I have received a letter from Mr. Bell just now...'

Margaret's eyes grew impossibly large, all the colour draining from the face and then, slowly, the pupils dilated in horror as she guessed the reason for his coming.

'Father...No...I can see it in your eyes. Something happened to him... No, no! He is dead, isn't he? Otherwise you would not be wearing this, would not be looking at me like this...'

He did not know how to answer, he did not expect her to guess the awful truth so readily. All he could do was to nod dumbly.

She tottered but felt the chair behind her and sat down heavily before he could move to assist her.

Her eyes remained dry, pale lips compressed while an expression of hopelessness and grief flooded her face. He felt all warmth leaving the small impassive hand he was still holding, and unconsciously rubbed it with his fingers as if to warm it.

'Margaret, let me call... what's her name, Dixon?'

She answered slowly, from some far away place in her unbearable grief:

'No... Dixon is away. I did not need much help being alone. She asked to visit her sister till Friday.'

'But the other girl, Martha?'

'Her mother was unwell today. She is staying there to help her. She will not be back until evening. There is no one.' Her voice was a colourless monotone.

"Is there anyone who can be with you?'

'No. I am all right. Mary might come for a minute of two later today, but she needs to return to work after her break'.

Mr. Thornton was not prepared for this. She was completely alone at this terrible time. How could he leave her? He wished he could comfort her somehow but what can one say in the face of such tragedy? She seemed frozen in her sorrow, unresponsive to his halting words of sympathy.

Dispirited he relaxed his hold and her hand slipped despondently out of his. Still no tears were coming to her eyes, though the look of brittle despair was gone now, replaced with a sickly, filmy dizziness. Mr. Thornton paced the room restlessly, desperate to do something, anything of use. How can he possibly help her? Water. Yes, a drink of water might refresh her. Wine would be better but he was not familiar enough with the house to locate it. Water should be easy to find.

He crossed under the little arch which, as he guessed before, led to the kitchen. As his eyes swept the unfamiliar room in hope of finding a glass and a water pitcher, his thoughts were suddenly arrested by an unexpected realization. There was no sign of any servant around. He recalled that Margaret said she was all alone today and yet, there was the ironing board and a heavy iron, still hot, forgotten on its stand. She was doing the ironing by herself. This queenly, genteel, most lady-like creature he ever knew was doing her own ironing in that ridiculous apron and the old pinkish dress she was still wearing. No wonder she was not disposed to see visitors at that moment. Surprising that she would open the door for him at all.

He closed his eyes and shook his head before resuming the task of finding water. The very first cupboard he opened was a pantry, a pantry that had no lock on the door. Indeed there was little enough to lock away. He never realized how distressed for money Hales were until that moment. In fact, the cardboard had awoken in him the memory of their own poor cupboard long ago when they had to live on fifteen shillings a week. Not as bad admittedly. It was not a food supply of someone who had not enough food to survive but of someone who had to count pennies and deny themselves simple indulgence of fruits and puddings. There was tea of a good quality in the jar though and a small sliver of cheese. But even with these pitiful luxuries it had the same feel of habitual privations. He was now painfully conscious of the Margaret's ability to remain such a regal lady in the face of poverty so hopeless that she needed to do the meanest house work all by herself.

He found the glasses in the second and last cupboard in the kitchen, carefully stored away with the lovely china cups he saw when Margaret served tea for him, the touching remnants of more genteel life in Helstone. There was also a tin pitcher with water on the side board. The glass rattled against metal with the shaking of his hand as he poured water in.

On his return he found her in the very same attitude as he left her. He placed the glass in her cold hand but it took a few moments before her fingers held it strongly enough. Her hand was so weak and shaky that water spilled slightly, leaving a wet gleam on her pale lips. He had to swallow and get up. Probably he needed some water himself.

The lethargy that she was succumbing to was worrying him now. Her half-veiled eyes looked at something in front of her that was not there and she only spoke when he addressed her, almost like a somnambulant, without any power left to disguise her meaning or refuse the answer.

With all his being he wished that he was her only friend and protector, that he could just scoop this woman out of her grief and bring her into his life. He would want nothing better, but his stubborn conscience kept whispering to him that there must be someone, somewhere who by blood connection or by the bond of a long friendship had claims on her superior to his.

She was in no state to volunteer the information but the matter could not be postponed. He racked his brain for any scrap of information that would help him direct his questions. What did Bell say in his letter? There was a family abroad. Probably contacting them was the best way but what help could they offer her from afar and when the letter would even reach them?

He could not think of any other person in connection with her... No. That was not quite true, was it? That man. The man who she protected at significant risk to herself. The man who was her support and hope when her mother died. A lover, probably a fiancée. His jealousy was stinging him bitterly but her need was the greatest. Mr. Thornton sternly told himself that he must ask her about him impartially, as if he has no interest in the matter. If the aunt was abroad, that man probably needed to be contacted.

He swallowed hard and returned to sit by her side.

'Do you...' he started and then almost instantly stopped himself, hearing grim surliness in his own voice. He started once again, gently this time:

'Miss Hale, do you have any friends you might want to contact? Your family? Your friends? They must be alerted as soon as might be.' She only closed her eyes tiredly. 'That man you were walking with, can he be of help?'

'What man?'

He floundered at the explanation. How could he possibly tell her who he meant without betraying the months of burning jealousy?

'The man at the train station,' he finally said blandly, 'Can you contact him?'

'My brother? How do you know about Fred? Oh, yes, I recall. I am sorry. It does not matter, he is safe now. He is back in Spain. He happy, he is married now.'

'You have brother?' Mr. Thornton heart skipped a beat at the news of his imagined rival being her brother - and married! Why did not Hale say that he had a son? Did it mean that she was not so completely alone as he imagined she was?

'Your brother...' he reveled in unexpected pleasure of pronouncing these words again about the person who was haunting his worst nightmares lately. 'Can he come for you here?'

'No. He can not return to England, it was terrible risk to come when Mama was dying. But he can not come, not again! He would be hanged. I might have to go there unless my aunt takes me in. Fred always wanted me to come to him but it is so far, so far from... Milton!'

Thornton was torn between the traitorous happiness that she was not attached to another man and the sudden horrified realization that nothing holds her in Milton after her father's death and that her departure, probably forever, was now a matter of days. But once again he shut out his selfish wishes and toiled on with what he saw as her best interests. He needed to know about her friends and relations, it was his duty to alert them of her desperate plight, for they had the first right of assisting her.

Slowly he pulled the information about mutiny from her. She was so deeply lost in her grief that she seemed unaware what she was saying and to whom was listening. She muttered distractedly about her fears that now Mr. Thornton thought poorly of her, to the face of the very man she was fretting about, oblivious to laying her heart bare in front of him.

His own heart started to beat thickly in his chest when he realized that his opinion was so important to her. It took all the resolution Mr. Thornton could master not to take her in his arms and assure her that there was nothing in the world that would induce him to think poorly of her. And yet – he had, hadn't he? He suspected this woman unjustly of misconduct she had never committed. He was blinded with jealousy when he had no right to be thus. He spoke to her viciously and permitted his mother to remonstrate with her.

He closed his eyes and the scene replayed in his mind as if it happened a moment ago. How unthinkingly cruel he was! She accepted his words in proud silence, not attempting to justify herself, merely flinching at his brutal lashing. His behaviour then was unforgivable. All he could do now was perform his duty, even if it would take her away from him as the result. He stood up and walked to the window, pressing his throbbing forehead to the cool glass.

Mustering his will once again, he persisted in talking to her, asking about any friend that she might have that needed to be informed of her plight. At first she did not seem to quite understand his purpose; but then she seemed to awake from her languid state for a brief moment and looked at him mildly surprised.

'My aunt and cousin, no, they are not abroad. They returned a few weeks ago.'

His treasonous heart sank. Of course a creature like this could not possibly be unwanted and friendless. The aunt, curse her.

'Do you think your aunt and cousin would be able and willing to assist you?' he asked, hoping against hope to hear that they were unfriendly, destitute and unwilling to take her in, leaving him a chance to stay in her life as her friend and supporter.

'I think so, I hope so. My aunt always treated me like a second daughter, and my cousin is very affectionate. I spent much of my childhood in their house as they were better situated in life than my poor parents. My aunt and cousin are very kind.'

That hope dashed too he had to resign now to the fact that as soon as the aunt would learn of Margaret's situation, she would be likely to take the orphaned girl to London, away from him forever. Yet it had to be done. Against every wish he had in his heart he urged her to write to her aunt. He searched the room for the paper and ink and brought them to her, willing to spare her any unnecessary effort in her distress. She appeared a little more aware of her surrounding but still very weak.

He tried to encourage her gently.

'Margaret, I am sorry to trouble you further at such a moment but this matter cannot be postponed. Your aunt needs to be informed.'

'I must write to her... yes. So she would help... Take me in to her home again, away from...' she looked at him pleadingly, and hesitated a tiny moment. '...here.'

'She is your only family left in England. If, as you say, she is attached to you, of course she would want to extend her kindness to someone in your situation. I know how devastating it is to lose someone, one you love so dearly.'

'More than one,' she echoed mournfully, her eyes still tracing his features as if trying to commit them to her memory forever.

He stuttered, losing the train of what he was saying at the moment. Of course. There was more than one loss. He took in a short breath through his teeth.

'Yes, your mother too, this was a very cruel year for you.'

At his mention of her mother Margaret closed her eyes as if he reprimanded her. She did not lift them again, resolutely looking down at her hands. He felt a pang of loss, wishing to see her eyes again.

Obeying him like a child she took the pen he offered and started a letter but after the first lines her hand sank back on the table, powerless to continue as soon as she came to the nature of the communication she was to make. He felt the cruelty of forcing her any further yet he needed to finish this wretched business, no matter what it cost him and send the letter that would take this girl out of his life and to some unknown 'Aunt Shaw'.

'Margaret, would you like me to write on your behalf?' He asked compassionately. 'You are much too distressed to continue'.

He took the pen from her unresisting fingers. She did not object so he wrote quickly, trying not to think about it, adding a few brisk, impersonal sentences conveying the necessary information. Still he had to trouble her for more effort. She was cajoled eventually to address and sign the letter before she sank back into her lethargy. With a heavy heart he sealed the accursed letter, the letter that would take the most important person in his life away from him forever.


	3. Tear in Strength

_I would like to say huge thank you to Kayran, who edited, advised and was generally incredibly patient with me, and to soccer4fc, who provided a thorough grammar check. They both are awesome. I am also updating already posted chapters, editing out the annoying mistakes, though it is already too late for those of you who hadto suffer through then already. I am sorry for that._

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**Chapter 3. Tear in Strength**.

By Ikuko

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Mr. Thornton stood up with the letter in his hand, unsure of his next action. The letter needed to be dispatched with the next post, if possible, but leaving Margaret was unthinkable. Why did she let both servants go this very day! Posting a letter would only take a few minutes, but how could he ask her to lock the door after him, or open it again upon his return? She needed someone, preferably a woman, to stay with her and help her.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sound of knocking at the kitchen door. Mr. Thornton briskly walked to the door and opened it to see a surprised Mary standing there.

'Master! I was only fetching some fresh bread and milk for Miss Margaret!'

Mr. Thornton was relieved to see another living soul in the house and Mary would do just fine for now.

'Miss Higgins, I need your help,' he said urgently.

'Oh, Master, but I have to be back at the mill before the noon break ends!'

'Miss Higgins, it will not take very long. Please. Miss Hale is not well. She has learned just now that her father passed away in Oxford, and is deeply distressed.'

'Master Hale is dead! Oh, poor old parson! Poor Miss Margaret!'

'Could you stay with her? She needs a woman's help. I must run some errands for her but I will be back in a few minutes.'

'Yes, Master. But I need to be at work by the end of the hour.'

'I will be back presently'

He left in haste. Indeed, it took him no more than a quarter hour to post the accursed letter.

From the street he could see the smoke stack of Marlborough Mills and the sight did not give him any comfort. The sequence of losses that was besieging him made the sight of them almost as melancholy as the sight of the recently bereaved house he just left. It seemed that the world around him was full with with hopeless toil and sorrow in the last few months, without repose or hope.

Mary opened the door for him. In her own way she was deeply attached to Margaret, expressing it in somewhat crude but well-meaning kindness. Mr. Thornton noted wryly that Mary was not idle in his absence. There was a tea prepared on the table, though the cup she poured for Margaret remained untouched.

And Margaret! During his short absence Mary somehow convinced her to change from her pinkish dress to the deep mourning once again. Mr. Thornton did not know whether to be annoyed by this observance of formality, or to admire Mary's sense in her attempts to stir her drooping, passive friend into some action. Mary's considerate attentions did not quite achieve the intended goal. The worried girl admitted that though Miss Margaret was amenable to every appeal, she did not respond to her, nor did she appear to understand what was happening around her and why.

Mary seemed to hesitate before going away.

'I do not fancy leaving poor Miss Margaret when she is so wan. Someone ought to be with her but I need to go back or Mr. Phillips would fine me for sure! I wish I could come in the evening but someone needs to look after the children!'

Mr. Thornton was now very concerned about Margaret's lethargy. He wished that a doctor would see her, lest she sink deeper an deeper until she slipped out of this life entirely. There was too much sorrow in her life for one person to bear.

'Go, Miss Higgins, I will stay here until Martha comes back. But could you do one more favour for me?'

'Yes, Master, but I need to get back right away,- '

'It will not take much of your time, Miss Higgins. You are working at Hamper's mill, aren't you? Could you pass a letter for Dr. Donaldson? It is almost directly on your way.'

He quickly wrote a few lines for the doctor explaining the situation and his concern with Miss Hale's despondency. Then he relieved Mary from her duties, once again asking to drop the note at Dr. Donaldson on her way to the mill.

The aunt might come in a day or two to whisk Margaret away from him but until she did, he was the nearest friend Margaret had. He was aware of the sickening feeling of guilt that was lacing his compassion. He was not as selfless as he would wish to be. Once, long ago, after her mother died, he wished that his love could support Margaret in her grief. Now it was finally required, at the cost of another tragedy to her.

If he was to stay here he felt he better make himself useful. The tea in Margaret's cup was quite cold now, forgotten on the table but Mary was thoughtful enough to bring the whole tea urn to the sitting room. Mr. Thornton refilled the cup and put it in her hand. To his gratification, she took the cup in both cold hands seeking the warmth. Tea seemed to revive her a little; at least some colour came to her lips and she no longer looked as chilled and trembling as when he had first returned to the room.

To the great relief of Mr. Thornton, the doctor came sooner than he had any hope of expecting him.

'Ah, Thornton. You are lucky the girl caught me when I was leaving to see old Mr. Norris just down the street. What a sad business. Poor Mr. Hale, do you know what happened?'

Thornton answered as well as he could.

She submitted to Dr. Donaldson's examination in the same state of apathy. He shook his head several times, saying that he could not find any immediate danger, but was concerned about the deep lethargy she was falling into. Her answers came in whispers if they came at all. Once or twice Thornton had to repeat doctor's questions to her, as it seemed that she answered more readily in reply to his voice.

'I would not worry overmuch,' said Dr. Donaldson. Try to recall her from her apathy by any means possible. I will give her some draughts, it will help in the meanwhile.'  
He rummaged in his spacious bag and produced a vial.  
'Is it morphine?'  
'No, she is unresponsive as it is. This it will strengthen her nerves but won't make her drowsy. Call her, talk to her. Don't let her sink deeper. If you succeed, with this draught she should improve somewhat within half an hour.'

Mr Thornton saw him out to the hall and fumbled with his pocket book.

'Oh, never mind that, it was just a friendly visit... well, all right, if you insist. She is a good girl. I would still like to see her give into a natural response to the grief. If she cries her sorrow out she will be able to deal with her grief better. She is very strong, it is astonishing what such noble creatures can bear. At the moment the danger is in herself. Her own strength is her enemy, she keeps herself under control when any other woman would faint or dissolve in tears. But I have seen this young lady in the worst of times, what a queen she is. She put her own grief on hold to help her poor father and I must say, he was not of much use just then. You only see one like this in a lifetime.'

Thornton only nodded. Not receiving any reply to his words, the good doctor turned and had a good look at the anguished face of the younger man. The light of sudden realization crossed his face and he turned away uncomfortably.

'Oh. Well, take care of her, then. She should not be left alone if it can be helped. Call her. She listens to your voice, you should be able to do it. Take heart, take heart. Remarkably strong they are, these thoroughbred creatures. Good day, Mr. Thornton.'

Indeed, soon after he saw the doctor out, Mr. Thornton noticed that Margaret became more responsive and aware of her surroundings, as the draughts administered gradually took effect. In one of the strange turns that distress occasionally takes, she seemed humiliated by the weakness she displayed to him, and attempted to recover her civil manners and find a refuge in halted conversation. He did his best to keep the pretence of a polite discourse, sensing that talking was helpful for her recovery. A new thought struck her then, and with trembling voice she asked if he knew when and where the funeral would take place.

There was no choice but to explain her about the delay of the letter. He saw how every new terrible realization – that her father was dead all these days that she spent in serene ignorance at home, that the funeral was taking place far away in Oxford at this very time and that Mr. Bell was apparently grievously ill himself – added unbearable weight to her already deep sorrow.

She told him about the last letter she received from from her father on Friday. It spoke of his content and love, and gave her such comfort and hope for the future when she read it... and he was already dead at that very time!

He felt acutely the bond of grief that existed between them. The stranger's hand that had written the letter from Mr Bell did not suggest any hope for Bell's recovery. Without him, they were possibly the only ones in the entire world who would truly grieve over the passing of that gentle soul, that delicate and lofty mind that was Mr. Hale.

He spoke to her every word of comfort he could think of, trying to convince her that though orphaned, she was neither alone nor unloved, and that life would go on and held many joys ahead. The sadness is transitory, there will be gladness again, and the grief will eventually fade into resignation and acceptance, he told her.

She listened to him in sad patience, but an least she listened at all. He was convincing himself that his words awoke some glimmer of hope in her, that the colour was returning to her lips and that she seemed stronger, but when she tried to get up she nearly fainted from actual weakness. He caught her just as she swayed. Before he realized it, she was there, the smell of her hair, her soft weight filling his arms.

Mr. Thornton looked quickly around himself, seeking a comfortable place to lie her down. She started to stir as her moment of dizziness passed but he only tightened his hold which was, if only he would be honest with himself, much more an embrace than a hold. She relented, hiding her face in his chest and inhaling deeply.

Behind the half open door in the next room he noticed a washing stand and guessed that it must be some bedroom. He shouldered the door open and carried her inside. This was when the first shuddering sob shook her frame. He stooped to deposit her on the bed but she was clinging to him so desperately that he was obliged to sit down on the bed beside her. He tried to tell himself sternly to get up and let her rest, but instead he lifted her arms and placed them around his own neck, just as they were on that memorable day during the strike, in realization of the dreams that were haunting him for many months now.

It was then that another racking sob tore through her and the tears that were held for so long were finally released. She was holding on him as the last support in her life, crying her heart out into his already soaked shirt.

His mind was torn, he could not leave her like this, surely? Not until the cursed servant come back. No, he would stay to comfort her, no matter how much it would hurt him to be so close to her and yet be unable to speak or act out his feelings for her. The feelings that had to be locked away as deep in his heart as possible.

She was helpless, friendless, and he would not use her moment of weakness in such a beastly way. He was a grown man, capable of controlling his emotions and actions, even if her swollen lips were only inches away from his and even if she was clinging to him like that, completely enveloped in his arms. He would not kiss the warm temple pressed to his face, nor the tremble of wet lashes he could feel with his lips. He was merely comforting a person in deep distress, that was all. Yes, he could taste her tears seeping between his unmoving lips, but it was simply because her face was so wet with them.

Her weeping gradually grew quieter until she stilled in his embrace with only an occasional choking sob shaking her fragile frame. He knew he should move away but could not force himself to do so yet. Her arms were still around his neck, just as they were at the top of the stairs long ago, he tried not to think of the parts of her pressed to him so closely. He lifted his head away from the temptation of her lips and her face slid down, now hidden between his shoulder and his neck. He closed his eyes, too drained to fight with himself and finding a refuge in immobility.

It was then when he felt it. On the sensitive skin of his neck, just below his ear her lips moved planting a quiet kiss. His heart seemed to stop as that tiny contact radiating from the single point burst all the invisible walls dividing them, like a single tap removing the keystone brings a whole building down. He was falling, spiraling out of control. In the effort to grasp something, anything tangible, he twisted her in his arms almost violently, needing to see her face to make sure that he did not imagine it. It was flushed from crying her eyes were still puffy and red; they remained closed for a moment longer, but then opened and met his questioning gaze boldly, unapologetically... His heart was beating thickly in his chest, and his head was spinning. She lifted her face higher, as if offering her lips to him. Heaven forgive him, he forgot everything and accepted the offering.

The world went still and then fell away completely. The tide that had been slowly building during the months of denial, jealousy, despair and helpless longing broke through and swept off all remnants of his self-control.

He did not know how much time has passed. Nothing in the world seemed to matter anymore. He crushed her even closer to his chest when a chill from his shirt, wet with her recent tears, jolted his consciousness. He almost recovered his senses for a moment, dimly sensing that he was overstepping some boundaries he had recently set for himself, but not quite remembering what they were. He stilled the assault on her lips, yet he was helpless to move away. And then she stirred impatiently, as if expecting him to continue. When he remained passive her lips moved under his, hesitantly, experimentally, trying to replicate what he had just done to her. Her timid endeavor swept away the last remnants of sanity he had, drowning him in the stormy sea of passion.

Sadness was still there, underlying every emotion but however grieved they were, they both felt the desperate need for this simple, natural affirmation that life and joy that still existed in the world. This woman in his arms she was to be loved and cherished, grief should not ever touch her. He kissed away the tears that should not stain her face, her swollen lips and eyes, trying to take away her terrible loss. Tearing off the black of their mourning, removing the dressing of sorrow from her and himself so that nothing would remind them of the grief, nothing would come between them, until there was only the ivory silk of skin. The sadness was ephemeral. The hurt they brought each other has passed, – even this brief pain, that made her whimper in his arms – but she pulled him back to her again – She felt the same as he did. – It was all so right – there was no death – no loss – no ruin – no grief – only life and joy in his arms – she was his life itself – so warm – so bright – blessed – rapturous – it was – ...bliss...

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To be continued

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What? There is nothing more here. No, it was strictly T, not a toe out of line, see for yourself, and I am not responsible for anyone's imagination. Not legally, at any rate.

Anyway, see you again when the next chapter will be ready. That is, if you liked this one. And if you did, it is nice to say so. Bye. My punctuation needs rest and probably a cold shower.


	4. Five and Eighty Pounds

I would like to thank wonderful betas: incredibly dedicated, patient Kayran and unbelievably thorough LittleBeth with her refined sense of English, and grammar wiz soccer4fc – all three more than just beta, but true editors – for their selfless labour. Lets have a round of applause… People, I said applause, not standing ovation, if you would embarrass them and they would run away, and where would I be then?

Anyway, thank you, Kayran, soccer4fc and LittleBeth, thank you very much indeed.

Err… Yes. Where have I been? Right. I will try to be good this time. No suggestive sentence structure anymore, no racy punctuation, I will be a good girl from now on. Well, probably a playful semicolon or provocative ellipsis now and then, but that's it. Yes, sir.

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**Part four. **

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**Five and Eighty Pounds**

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The rattle of carriage wheels behind the window brought him slowly back from the golden daze. For a few more moments he was simply savouring the perfect respite, mindlessly watching the movement of the light window curtain in the gentle spring breeze, but gradually the reality began to intrude. It was real! She was there, warm and soft, leaning trustingly in his arms. What had he done! He had betrayed every trust, every decency. He selfishly used a helpless, distraught person for satisfaction of his basest desires! Cold terror and disgust at himself were creeping through his mind. And yet, and yet he could not repent, could not interpret what happened with remorse. Beyond everything that made him a civilized being and a gentleman, his most inner soul was still treasuring the moments he lived through.

At least he would never let it hurt her. He would do all he could to make any possible amends. In any respect concerning society, he would make absolutely sure that she would not suffer for his crime.

He was struck by a sudden thought that the responsibility that society expected of him to carry out of honour was the very same prize he had been seeking in vain for so long. It was as if the punishment for eating the Forbidden Fruit was to accept the deed for Garden of Eden.

He rose on his elbow to see her face. Her eyes were closed but he knew she was not asleep. The large, translucent lids hiding her beautiful eyes trembled slightly under his gaze. How could he comfort her, reassure her? How could he even begin to ask her forgiveness? He lowered his head and kissed her temple, barely touching the warm skin.

She opened her eyes, and he was entranced by the expression. There was no blame, no guilt, no regret, only sad, shy tenderness. He cupped her face in his free hand and kissed the corner of her mouth lovingly, trying to convey his promise to protect her. She leaned into his hand, rubbing her soft cheek against his palm.

He hesitated, realizing that they have not spoken a word since he brought her to this room. It seemed sacrilegious to break the silence that united them. Yet there were words that needed to be spoken.

'Margaret' he whispered finally.

She looked at him.

'Margaret, what I did to you is unforgivable; I have betrayed Mr. Bell's trust and your father's friendship, I used your despair and weakness. I have claimed you without any right, but it was an error of judgement, not a crime of the heart. The guilt is mine; you will not suffer for my wrongs.'

She looked at him sadly.

'You regret...'

'No! I know that I broke every moral law, and my greatest remorse is over the great injury I have caused you; I am prepared to pay any penalty for it, but, guilty as I am, I cannot claim to feel regret.'

'You have done nothing that you would need to feel remorse over. I appreciate your noble intent of taking the fault on yourself, but I cannot accept it. You know as well as I do that it was my doing and my responsibility. I do not want any excuses of distress for myself. You did what you could to save me from myself. I did not want to be saved. Do not blame yourself, I beg you.'

'Margaret, you can not absolve me by taking the blame. I cannot let you have all the credit. Do you truly believe that you seduced my innocence without my active and willing participation?'

'Mr. Thornton, ...'

'Margaret, my parents were considerate enough to give me a Christian name.'

She stumbled, abashed, and dropped her eyes. She was speaking to his bare chest now, her fingers tracing his collar bone, unaware of the effect it was having on him. He was obliged to trap her hand under his to be able to listen to her.

She blushed; not lifting her eyes, and went on:

'I lost so much... I could not face this last loss. You were sending me away. I would never see you again! I could not let go. It was never your fault. I had sinned long in my heart. What happened here did not change much, only gave me a brief happiness that I did not deserve. I have no family to disgrace. The loss of my honour and character will not touch anyone aside from myself. My family... I am a true Hale, after all. My brother followed his heart in the mutiny, against the naval laws. My father followed his heard into dissent, against his church. Now I followed my heart into your arms, against all the morals of the society. Like my brother and my father, I am prepared to pay the full price for it. You need not to worry about me. I shall go to my aunt, as you wished, if she will still have me.'

'I never wished it. I hated sending that letter…' he swallowed. 'that would take you away.'

She looked in his face sad and longingly.

'I learned to value and admire you when you despised me. I know I deserved it, not for what I was censured, but for the lie that I told.'

'Would you ever be able to forgive me for suspecting you? I never stopped loving you, though in my foolishness I once declared that I did.' he pleaded. She blinked and went on dreamily, as if she had not heard him.

'Your face has haunted me for so long. I would notice it on the crowded street from anywhere, always stern, frowning at me in displeasure. But now I have another image of your face... ' - he almost blushed himself in realization of what moment - his face was contorted in rapture, - she named so innocently ... 'For one brief moment I had a power to extort it from you. I will treasure it and will be proud of it to my dying day, even if you will cast me off in disgust in the next, as you must.'

'Cast you off?!'

He was struggling to grasp the enormity of it. She loved him in a way he never hoped she would. Yet she spoke of it simply, as if some obvious thing of common knowledge. Yes, he hoped to win her affections with time, and he knew that her affections were warm and enduring when bestowed. He had not even dreamed of this. He felt awed and unworthy of such precious feelings. He hated the thought of her suffering – when one word, one glance would have brought him to her feet!

'Margaret. Marrying you would not be a punishment for a sin. It is a prize I have wanted to win for a very long time. Punishment would be to send me away from your side. No matter what the demands are of society on my honour, I will not use it to force you do what you do not want. If you wish, I will live my life from now on knowing that no honour can belong to me, that the one I love is forbidden to me. All you need is say is "_John Thornton,_"' he stressed the first word slightly, '"_I am disgusted with you, I do not forgive you, I will not have you, leave my side forever_"'

Her eyes were opening wider as he spoke, as if in disbelief. When he fell silent, she took a shaking breath, and opened her lips in a silent movement, as if trying to articulate something with effort. Finally, she frowned in determination, looked him in the eye and said:

'_John_ Thornton.' Her voice broke, but she continued: 'You are not responsible for what I have done. I will answer for my own actions. I do not wish you to sacrifice anything for the sake of my reputation or fine notions of honour; I want you to be free.'

He rolled over on his back, still holding her, so that she ended on top of him. Her hair, usually arranged in a complicated coif, came loose, spilling over her shoulders. Only one single pin still bravely held up a dark lock over her temple, giving her somewhat rakish look. He adored her.

'Free? Free to do what I want?'

'Yes, unshackled of any obligations.'

'Even if I wish to walk away.'

'Yes.'

'But what if I do not wish any such thing? Am I equally free to be with the one I have loved for so long, with whom I am now joined before God? Am I free to have you by my side for the rest of my life? Margaret, do not punish us both in the name of your pride. You claim responsibility. And so we both should. But you will not claim it in full. Nothing so easy as rejection and feeling miserable. I expect more courage from you. Take also full responsibility for your own happiness and future.'

He was awed at the exquisite, abominable pride of this woman, who looked so childlike and fragile with her soft lips, and narrow naked shoulders. That thought led to another idea. She seemed unaware of their state of nakedness, something that his own body, pressed to the full length of hers, could not allow him to forget. It was only a matter of minutes until she would notice that in his madness he had not left a stitch on them.

He was not inexperienced; he had seen women in various state of undress, shifts, and nightgowns, but not this Eden-like bareness. In her complete innocence she accepted everything he in his passion wished to do with guileless trust, without knowledge or care for what was considered appropriate. Women of any stature, even the poor deprived creatures who sold their bodies on the streets expected some pretense of propriety. But he had neglected that too.

He steeled himself for her anger and mortification at his blatant disregard for her modesty, and in another moment realized that it would not come. She did not know, did she? It was not supposed to happen like that. Not before whispers of mothers and aunts would poison a new bride's mind against intimacy and desires of husbands. She was, indeed, his Eve before the Original Sin. He needed more than anything to make sure that this woman in his arms would stay in his arms forever.

A knocking sound came from below the window, and Margaret jolted like a startled bird. Though it was only horse hooves of some rider on the street, the magic of the moment was lost. Margaret shifted and muttered something about Martha returning soon.

'Are you afraid of a servant's disapproval now?' he asked, smiling. She coloured so furiously, that he could not resist pulling her head to him, hiding her hot face in the hollow between his neck and shoulder, until the heat of her blush dissipated into his skin. Yet, she was right. There was no point causing any more tittle-tattle than was absolutely necessary.

Their clothes were in a pile on the floor, black on black, his mourning mixed with hers. He untangled his coat and breeches from her dress, and placed the dress carefully on the bed, smoothing out the creases.

Shame about the corset. He doubted it was mendable now. He did not quite recollect how it happened, he only remembered dimly tearing at the hooks while small hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.

The house was so tiny that there was no such luxury as a dressing room. He gathered his clothes and walked to the washstand. He could feel her eyes on his back and turned; she did not realize that she was staring at him awe-struck. Out of mischief he permitted himself the pleasure of sliding his gaze lazily over her uncovered body until she blushed and dove for her shift. He finished dressing and went to the next room, to give her some privacy and to have a few minutes of freedom to arrange his own thoughts.

He was back in the room he knew well. He could feel the deep, sucking emptiness in his chest at the thought that he would never again sit here with his mentor. There would never be another quiet, intelligent discussion of Plato or Aristotle. The soft, delicately nuanced voice would never again correct his pronunciation, and he would never be rewarded for an idea or an effort with a mild, approving look in Mr. Hale's eyes. The book on the table, bound in fine white vellum was the very same volume of Plato they had studied. He stroked its spine fondly, and once again firmly embraced his guilt. He placed his hand flat on the book in his resolve to protect his teacher's child, as if swearing on the Holy Scripture.

He would be as patient as it would take. She loved him. Only her pride was standing between them now, and he knew that her heart was greater than her pride. His love and care would support her; they would live through the grief and would find new happiness on the other shore of this strait. He saw a pale light of hope in her eyes, amongst damp, cold walls of grief and loneliness. He would nurture that weak flame with all he had.

Unconsciously he was listening to the small sounds coming from the room he had left, his mind supplying images to every splash of water and rustle of clothes. When it all went silent he strained in anticipation. It seemed like the meeting after this brief separation would decide his fate from now.

The silence stretched until his nerves were tingling. Finally, the door opened, and she came out, fully and to all appearances impeccably dressed in black that had nothing to hide from him now; only her hair was twisted in a simple low knot instead of its usual arrangement.

She glanced at him briefly and dropped her eyes again, as he stepped closer and took her hand. In another moment she pulled it away, blinking away a tear. She strove once again to assume casual, civil behavior, though did not yet trust herself to speak. She checked the tea urn, and finding that it was quite cold, took it to the kitchen. Thornton trailed after her without thinking.

The fire was nearly dead in the grate and he occupied himself by rebuilding it, while Margaret filled the kettle. In another moment he was caught in a charm of unintended - and probably unnoticed by Margaret - domesticity. His old gift of always knowing without looking where she was and what she was doing was apparently shared by her, too, and together they were weaving a simple dance of preparing the tea in perfect accord.

He caught her hand after she passed him the filled kettle.

'Margaret. Is your pride the only thing that stands between us?'

'Mr. Thornton... John,' she said, finally. He felt his heart swelling. 'I... I still fear that you are…' she shook her head at his attempt to interrupt her. 'I do not beg to be cajoled. I know your integrity and your honour and do not wish to tax them to flatter my vanity. However, if I am to retain any right for integrity myself, I can not accept you being pressured by some idea of duty into doing something you would not want to do otherwise,'

'Margaret, look.' He pulled out his pocket book, showing her pressed yellow roses there, and watched her lips part in surprise.

'These are from Helstone! I would recognize them anywhere! Where did you get them?'

'I went to Helstone last Friday, on my way from Havre. When I could not hope to ever call you mine, I wanted some share in your life, even something as remote as seeing the place where you were happy. See, they are not quite dry yet. Do you still think I do not want to be with you?'

Her eyes, round in wonder, blinked at him incredulously 'You went to Helstone because of me?'

'If I knew this would help my case, I would have been going there weekly'

She did not smile, but he could see the gleam of hope growing stronger in her eyes.

The kettle was boiling; glad to have an occupation, they filled the urn and gathered the tea things. There was the milk and bread that Mary brought, and after a moment of consideration Margaret dug out of the depth of the cupboard a small clay jar still half-full with jam. Thornton suddenly felt ravenous; he enjoyed this very inadequate repast more than any feast in his life. He was gratified to see that Margaret was eating now, too.

'Margaret, what other objections do you have against us?'

She smiled wanly. 'I am running out of objections. The disparity of fortune, maybe?'

He covered her hand with his. There was a bond between them; he could feel it stronger than ever. He pulled on it, willing her to look at him. Obedient to the unsaid command, she raised her eyes. He spoke to her then, honestly, ruthlessly laying the real state of his affairs to her. He admitted that his fortune suffered heavy blows lately, business having never recovered from the strike, that he had barely enough funds to cover the payroll, and that he was struggling to keep the doors of the mill open from day to day.

'Margaret, as it is now I depend on the money I have borrowed from Latimer. He extended my debt several times already, but it cannot continue indefinitely. If at any time the banker would take a fancy to call the debt, I would have to close the mill and surrender the house. There is no property difference between us now. I stand on the brink of failure. I have no opulence to offer you, I am as penniless as you are. All I offer to you is myself, my devotion and my love. I do not want to buy you as my possession, I could not do it now if I wanted.'

'I am sorry to hear it. Poor Mrs. Thornton!'

'I assure you that it will never come to the actual need. I am certain to find a good position in town, if not as master, then as an employee of another, and eventually as a partner. With you by my side I am prepared to start over again. I have experience and reputation that will help me on my way. I will be able to support my family... including children... in reasonable comfort.'

'Children...' she blinked at the new idea.

'Margaret, you might be already...' he struggled for the words. Her eyes rounded, and the weak light of hope he tended so carefully all this time trembled precariously, and then flashed forward like a bright sunlight.

'And you still want me for your wife? After all that has happened?'

'Yes. Emphatically. With all my heart.'

'And your financial state is indeed as bad as you are saying?'

'Yes. I owe the bank almost four hundred pounds and the mills hardly makes enough to cover the rent, cotton purchases and payroll.'

She frowned and threw her head back proudly, but the light still danced in her eyes.

'All right. Then I want to buy you for my possession. With the dilapidated state of your affairs I should be able to afford it.' He was so shocked by this unexpected declaration that he almost choked on his tea.

'Margaret, this morning you had four small pieces of sugar and two ounces of cheese in your cupboard. You were doing your own ironing!'

She looked even more proudly at him, something he did not think possible.

'I did not wish to waste money without need. It has saved me funds for that acquisition I have mentioned.'

'And how do you wish to purchase me for your own?' he asked, smiling softly down at her, his chest tightening in profound affection.

A cloud of sadness passed over her face for a moment, but she continued in the same business like tone.

'I will have some money. My parents...' she stumbled again. 'My parents had a small independent income of some hundred seventy pounds. At least half of it, about five and eighty pounds a year, was settled on my mother, to become my future portion. The rest would belong to my brother...'

'Can he claim his inheritance without risking his life?'

'It would be too much risk for him to come, and I doubt he would want to, but it is my duty to send him his part.'

'He does not need it?'

'He has some financial independence now. He had a good position before, but now he has been accepted as junior partner to the company since he had married Miss Barbour, the only child of the owner.'

'Barbour. As in Barbour & Co. of Cadiz?'

'You know of them? I am sure that I can pass money through one of their offices in England...'

'I buy fabric dye from them. So, you expect a partner and heir of one of the largest trading companies on the Continent to accept five and eighty pounds from you, while you iron your clothes yourself?'

'It is his money. If he refuses, I will be glad of it, but I must offer him his fair share. And I usually don't iron, it was only today that Martha had to leave.'

'Of course. And with the rest your great fortune you intend to buy out Marlborough mills from the debt I accumulated? Does it remind you of something? Λέων και μυς*...'

'Aesop has nothing to do with this!' she said, annoyed, and perfectly at home with his reference.

'Certainly not. He was a sensible man, who wrote sensible, reasonably believable fables. Oh, there were talking animals with all kinds of lofty ideas, but he would never have thought of writing about a tiny mouse who offered to save _two_ lions at once. Now, _that_ would be ridiculous, he would have been laughed out of Athens.'

'You might laugh, but it is enough to cover the debt and keep the mills open, and the families of the workers fed.'

'Margaret, five and eighty pounds a year would not cover house rent and two servants.'

'I am not proposing to waste my money on that! You said that your debt is less than four hundred pounds. The income of my parents is dividends from what little they had, bringing four percent interest. You once said that if a good buyer would come to you, you would wait with your hat in hand at any time.' He gloried that she had remembered his words from so long ago. 'I am making you a business proposition that you would take this money and reinvest in the mills. Eighty five pounds a year is more than two thousand pounds capital. It will cover the debt and clear you completely.'

Then a small part of him that did the ledgers and could think in pounds and percentages woke up and attested to the truth of her words.

'You offer all you have to me?' He looked at her in wonder, deeply touched. Everything in him, his pride, his desire to protect her, rebelled violently against the very idea. But at the edge of his consciousness the John-who-did-the-ledgers who had not quite faded out yet, snidely supplied: "fool, look at the _whole_ bargain". He gazed intently down at her face, as she continued:

'I do not want the mills to close, for people to lose their livelihood and you... you not being a Master. If you take it, will it help?'

'Yes, it would help.' Now he could see it. John-who-did-the-ledgers was right. In her selfless care for others she overlooked what her proposal entailed. And he _would be_ a fool to let it pass. He extended his hand to her, as to a business partner.

'Do we have a bargain?'

She took it and shook solemnly. 'Yes, we do.'

'You probably did not notice it, but you just agreed to marry me,' he said, grinning. He did not release her hand, holding it warmly.

'I suppose I did,' she pursed her lips thoughtfully. 'It was probably the most prosaic agreement ever. Why, we only talked about money, and marriage stipulation came as a legal detail.'

'I am sure there is no more mercenary couple in the world,' he said, his voice breaking with tenderness.

'Trader' she said with a small smile.

'Trader's wife.' he teased her back.

'And you are sure you want to marry me? You could do better than eighty five pounds.'

He reached with his free hand and traced the underline of her jaw with the back of his forefinger until he reached the point just under her proud chin. There he stopped and gently raised her head to look directly into her eyes.

'No man could do better.' He said quietly.

'So you agree to be bought off for this measly price?'

'To you it's a bargain even for a tuppence. You've held the clear title for many months now. But now I too have what I have wanted for so long.'

'You have had it for many months, too.' she lowered her head shyly, brushing her cheek against the back of his hand.

'Margaret... when? Is it too bold of me to ask you when you will give me your hand?'

'You are holding it right now,' she smiled down at their joined hands. 'It is yours whenever you wish it. If we are joined before God, we cannot be joined before people too soon.'

'Beware, Love. For I wish it today, right now, before we say another word.'

'I only wish it was possible. It takes many weeks.'

'Only the poor are married by banns these days'

'Are you so extravagant to request a special license?'

'No. We are not so poor as to be married by banns, but I am not sure we can afford one and twenty pounds for a special license. It is a quarter of your annual income.' He stole a quick kiss from her lips. 'We both live here, a standard license would do for us.'

'Still it will take time to obtain it. Milton cannot boast on higher clergy.' It was true. Wait. He was suddenly struck with an idea. Of course, St. Catherine. Why didn't he think of it before?

'Do you believe in my abilities?'

'Completely.'

'And I have your agreement to marry me as soon as I can set up a priest?'

'I would like at least half an hour notice.'

"I think I can promise you that much, but do not try my patience further.'

The kitchen door was opened by someone with a key. John and Margaret looked at each other.

'Martha' she said, a little guiltily.

He got up before she had any chance to and went to have a few words with the girl. Martha was surprised to see him, but her habitual loyalty to the Thorntons was unwavering. He briefly informed her of the death of her master, and waited out her effusions of sorrow. When her grief subsided, he explained what help he expected her to give Miss Hale. On the afterthought he pulled a note from his pocketbook and instructed Martha to get some items from the grocer, probably more suitable for a hearty Christmas dinner than a dainty supper on a warm spring day, but he could not get the emptiness of that cupboard out of his mind.

Now that Martha was at hand, he knew that he needed to make haste if he was to implement the idea that hit him a few moments ago. He should just bow and go, as propriety required. And he would, if only he had not looked once again at her pale face, where the lips he had bruised glowed pink and translucent in the oblique ray of the setting sun.

When he finally tore himself away, her eyes were closed and she reached for the door post for the support. His own head reeling, he resolutely turned away and walked out, removing himself from further temptation.

To be continued…

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* Thornton is referring to the Aesop's fable "The Lion and The mouse". If you don't recall it, it goes like this: A Lion trapped a Mouse under his paw; Mouse begged for mercy, promising to help the Lion in the future. Much amused, Lion let it go. But later, when hunters caught the Lion and tied him to the ground, grateful Mouse chewed through the ropes and released him.

Stay with me, people. Just a couple more chapters to go.


	5. The Bishop

Once again, thanks to a wonderful beta soccer4fc, and editor extraordinaire LittleBeth, this chapter is possible.

I generally avoid bringing in OC without absolute need, but in this case it is not an OC, it is a historical figure. All I changed is his name, and even that only a bit, everything else mentioned is a matter of historical record. Coincidences were just too numerous and tempting to resist.

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**The Error of Judgment**

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Part 5.

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The Bishop.

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He shut the front door after himself and leaned on it. The events of the day crowded his head, each more stupendous than another. He needed time to think, and now was not the time. This day was not over yet.

Through the thin walls of the lightly built house he could hear the sound of the kitchen door opening and closing and guessed that Martha had returned from the grocer. He could go now. Margaret was no longer alone. Just as soon as he heard her voice one more time, he would go.

Instead he heard Martha's voice. 'Miss, oh, Miss! Poor miss; you will get yourself sick crying so!'

He could not hear her weeping, but could see it in his mind all the same. She put on a brave face in front of him, not as a disguise – she did not have to disguise anymore – but to avoid burdening him with her grief any further. He should not stay and listen; she needed her privacy to grieve. No matter how much he wanted to hold and comfort her, he should let her be, at least for now.

His heart bleeding in compassion and guilt, he made himself walk away. There were things he still needed to do. St. Catherine was consecrated today already; Mr. Lynn would not stay in town for long.

Mr. Lynn… most people now would not call him by that name anymore, but for Mr. Thornton the name signified greater respect than all the titles and shining honours that came later. Their history went a while back, since the day his Father insisted that young John go to his own old school. There was a disagreement between his parents about that. Mother looked with disdain at the useless, fancy education that Rugby school would give to her son. To her, no greater honour existed than dedicated, competent work as a cotton manufacturer. Yet Father was firm. He himself was not one from Milton. He was of a good family, with excellent education, and when he married Mother his own family was disappointed. Yet he embraced the life in Milton and did his best to follow his chosen path. However, when it came to his firstborn, it all changed. Father hoped that his son would become a gentleman and scholar. Despite the resistance from his wife he sent John to a school for gentlemen, useless for the future in trade, the school he himself remembered fondly, though it was two counties away. Mother yielded, and did not complain as long as Father lived. Mr. Thornton had not understood the depth of her resentment until she took him from the school after his Father death.

The school itself was a different world from Milton. Things he was taught and things other boys did or talked about were as foreign to him as some distant country. He struggled at first, but then help came from his teacher, then simply Mr. Lynn, or Reverend Lynn on more formal occasions. Mr. Lynn was able to break through the surly crust of the boy from the North and discovered the bright young man inside. Mr. Lynn was a newcomer to the school himself, and the new teacher and new student formed a bond of sorts. As years went by, the relationship between the teacher and the pupil grew almost into a friendship, the two of them spending many hours in discussions. Small in frame and not terribly impressive at first glance, Mr. Lynn was one of the most brilliant minds in the country, a fiery speaker and innovator. Young John respected and admired him greatly.

Their paths parted when Father died. Young John was taken from school to provide for his mother and sister and Reverend Lynn was elected a rector of King Edward's school the very same year. They had not seen or spoken to each other for a long time. But several years ago, when Reverend Lynn rose to the highest honours and was enthroned as a bishop of the newly created Manchester diocese, they met again. First it was quite by accident; Thornton attended a Sunday service on his visit to Manchester and almost ran into the slight black clad man who exclaimed his name in surprise. Later, they met by design, as the need for the new church was growing more dire and many dealings with the head of the diocese were undertaken by the magistrates of Milton.

And now he was in town, and John depended on him for the task at hand. Certainly, there were other ways of speeding up a marriage. He could have written to the archdeacon, for example, and gotten the license within a week or so, but he was not sure that he could wait a week. Margaret's aunt was looming over his future like a dark cloud.

Margaret would not be of age for many months yet, and she had no other relatives in England. If her aunt wished it she could become her legal guardian, take Margaret with her to London, and forbid him from seeing her there, much less permit them to marry. Some things Margaret said convinced him that Aunt Shaw was a lady of means and a notable feature of London society; she disdained everything about the North and for her to be involved in trade or manufacture was an indelible stain. There was little doubt that she would not approve of the marriage and that she had power to interfere, at least until Margaret turned twenty one.

That he was not sure he could wait that long was beside the point: he tasted the Lotus, there was no going back for him. But there was another thought that made his chest contract in horror: a possibility, however slight, that Margaret might be carrying his child already. The thought of that made any delay impossible! If Margaret were taken away, precious time would be lost. Even if the aunt was reasonable enough to let them marry, the delay would be a disgrace for Margaret. But what if she was sent to a distant village and their child was born in shame and secrecy, sent nameless and friendless to some orphanage? No! He needed the help of Mr. Lynn before such a catastrophe could come to his loved ones.

At the turnpike he hesitated. Should he go to St. Catherine, in a suburb two miles away, or should he return to Milton? He consulted his watch and decided against walking to Carlton. It was late, the sun was already setting. No doubt there was no one left in the new church but the new parson.

St. Catherine was a long-needed church in the suburb. People walked all the way to Milton for Sunday service, and poor Mr. Tully, the vicar there, was hard pressed to care for his overlarge parish. The old village church that had existed there fell into a decrepit state long before the cotton industry came to town, and the parish was abolished. But the success of the cotton mills had repopulated the area, turning a rural village into a bustling suburb of Milton. It took long for the need to be addressed, but finally funds were found for the restoration of the old church and the parish and today the newly opened building was consecrated. Thornton winced in discomfort; he was supposed to be present, as one of the contributors. But it was too late. The Bishop would not stay there, as Mr. Tully would insist on hospitality in Milton, arguing that the new parsonage was yet to be made properly comfortable. Thus, Milton parsonage was Thornton's new destination.

He arrived at the parsonage house when it was already quite dark. The parsonage was lit brighter than he ever remembered it, Mr. Tully sparing no sign of hospitality he could show to his illustrious guest. Thornton hesitated a moment before ringing the bell, not sure how he should explain his visit. A harassed servant opened the door, and he passed his card for Mr. Tully and the Bishop. He had to wait long enough to worry that he would not be admitted at all, but at last he was invited in. Mr. Tully was in good spirits, but Thornton could see the jealous look he gave him at the joyful greeting he received from His Excellency.

'John, my boy! I was wondering why you did not come. One would expect you to be among those who were honoured today. I believe that you did more for St Catherine's restoration than any other man. The new vicar thinks the world of you. You are too modest in your ways. But I am glad you came now.'

'Your Excellency…' he started.

'Nonsense, John. I've had enough ceremony today…' He paused, apparently taking in Thornton's signs of deep mourning. 'Your mother is well?' he asked carefully.

'Yes, Sir. Thank you. She is in excellent health. I am grieving for a good friend.' He looked momentarily at Mr. Tully. 'I got a letter just this morning. Mr. Hale has passed away on Friday in Oxford.'

'Mr. Hale dead?' Kindly Mr. Tully was visibly upset. 'What will become of his daughter?'

'Mr Hale? I knew a Hale once. He used to be a curate of Helstone.' The bishop seemed alarmed.

'The very same. He came here when he resigned his position in Helstone. He was my friend and tutor. Did you know him?'

'I did.' said the Bishop sadly. 'I was in school with him. He was three or four years older; we first became friends when he assisted me with some school tormentors of mine. I was always scrawny, you know, and Hale, though not very beefy himself, came to my aid. Later we found that we had many interests in common. He had a superb mind and great love of the Classics. Later, when he went to Oxford, and I to Cambridge, the rivalry between colleges could not affect our friendship. It was a shame that a man like that had to stagnate in that small parish for so long. I doubt his knowledge was appreciated there.'

'I was there,' the Bishop gave him a penetrating look, but Thornton went on, 'people remember him fondly. The new parson is having a difficult time trying to fill his shoes. But the people there are poor and uneducated; they never knew what kind of man he truly was.'

'I am sorry to hear that. I suppose the last year was hard on him.'

'It was. They were suffering most cruelly. His wife died within months of their moving here. It was a cruel year for him and his family.'

'I knew about his spiritual struggles. The Bishop of Hampshire wrote to me, knowing that we used to be close. He tried to advise him gently, but poor Hale was too troubled by his doubts.' He nodded sorrowfully. 'I wish I could have talked to him then. But it was too late already'.

Mr. Tully was somewhat uncomfortable with such a degree of compassion for a Dissenter from such high a prelate, but he was a kind man and a generous host. He noticed that the conversation was a bit strained between his two guests and astutely guessed that they needed to discuss things privately. He magnanimously offered the Bishop and Mr. Thornton to have a seat in more comfortable chairs in his study while he went and arranged for some tea.

Thornton appreciated the old vicar's delicacy, and gladly consented. But now, seated alone across from his old teacher, he was at loss of how to approach the subject. The Bishop, seeing his difficulty, kindly tried to encourage him.

'I hope your mills are doing as well as can be expected?' He asked.

'I am doing what I can. I was put quite behind by the strike that took place last September'.

'Oh, yes. I have heard of that. Rumors said that there were riots, and that a woman was killed by the mobs.'

'No! Not killed, thank goodness, but injured, yes.'

'To think that Englishmen could behave in such a savage, unchristian way! And to a woman, too! How did the poor thing even came to be a victim of such brutality? Was it an accident?'

'No. Sir, this is the reason I wanted to talk to you today. That woman… she came out of safety to shield another with her own body when she saw that the rioters were about to throw stones. It was Miss Margaret Hale, daughter of Mr. Hale.'

'Indeed?' The bishop looked at him in astonishment. 'A remarkable woman. Whom was she protecting?'

'Me.'

The Bishop looked sharply at him but said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

'Sir. I came to ask you to issue a marriage license for Miss Hale and me.'

'Why now? Why right after the death of her father?'

'She is left without family or support in this world.'

'Yes. But why haven't you married before now? Why hadn't I get the glad news from you in September, then?' Thornton could not quite meet the sharp eyes of his old teacher. He said, resolutely looking at his hands:

'I had not spoken of my feelings to her before the riot. I didn't believe she could have cared for me. What she did then… I admit, gave me hope and courage. But by then the town was full of malicious rumors, blaming her for impropriety and mercenary reasons. They were not rich. People can be very cruel.'

'I can imagine,' prompted the Bishop.

'She did not believe me then. She thought that I only spoke to protect her reputation and character.' The unnecessary fire in the study's grate was making his face very hot.

'She refused you, after protecting you with her life?'

'Yes.' He still could not take his eyes from his hands, which seemed strangely large and awkward to him now.

'But now you ask me for a license?' the Bishop asked in a deceptively mild tone.

'We have resolved the misunderstandings we had.'

He knew better than to look directly at his old teacher. He remembered the power of those eyes that saw right in your soul and pulled everything you were hiding out on the open. He came for a license, not for a confession. He resolutely waited through the pregnant pause and was relieved to hear Bishop's resigned sigh.

'When do you wish to get married?' The Bishop's voice was suddenly brisk and business-like.

'As soon as we can. That is why I came to you directly, as you were in town, instead of writing to the Archdeacon.' Thornton did his best not to sound too relieved.

'Where do you want to be married? You know with a standard license I need to put a church or a parish where at least one of you reside.'

'Crampton, I suppose,' said Thornton, a bit surprised. 'It is her parish.'

'Reverend Molson?'

'Yes, I believe so.'

'And your parish is here, with Reverend Tully?'

'Yes, but it is two miles from her home.'

'John,' said the Bishop. Thornton finally looked him in the face. 'John, listen to me. You want to marry, and you have a perfect right to do so. More so, I know you well enough to believe that if you have set your mind on something firmly enough to start acting on it, you will not turn back. All I can do is to help you marry when and where you wish – or refuse to, which would not stop you, as I well know' he added, hearing breath hissing through Thornton's teeth. 'But indulge your old teacher. I cared for you as a pupil, and I was a friend of Hale all that long time ago. To me you are not merely another couple who wishes to marry in a hurry. You are telling me things about this woman that are incredible, hardly believable. I have to surmise that either you have found a rarest gem among women, or that you are completely blinded by love.' He looked at the Thornton's face and firmly set lips. 'Or both.'

'Yet it is true. I wish you knew her,' said Thornton, braving the thoughtful, intent gaze of his old teacher.

'This is what I am asking you for. I want to talk to her first. I feel responsible for my friend's child and for my best pupil. I will issue you the license, but for this church. I promised Mr. Tully to conduct a special morning service tomorrow before I leave, but bring this young lady to the church after that, at about eleven o'clock. I would like to talk to her. If you are right, I will marry you myself.'

'It would be an honour, Sir' said Thornton, quite astonished.

'I will wait for you tomorrow morning, then.'

Thornton got up, and grasped the outstretched hand of the Bishop gratefully. He left despite Mr. Tully's objections pressing him to take some tea with them. He had one more trying conversation ahead of him.

He walked home, lightheaded with exhaustion. Mother was waiting for him in the dining room, as was her habit of many years. She looked at him questioningly, but did not say anything at first. Instead, she called Jane to bring some dinner she saved for him in the kitchen. Despite his tiredness, he felt thankful for that. Mother watched him carefully as he ate.

'John?' she asked at last. 'How is Miss Hale?'

He put his fork down. 'As well as can be expected,' he said after a pause.

'What will she do, how will she live? Will she go to her relatives in London? I must say, little as I liked her, I feel sorry for the poor girl.'

'Mother. Please. Do not talk about her like that.'

'I did not say anything against her. She is well enough. But I do not need to like her,' she said stubbornly. He shook his head.

'I wish you would try, Mother. She agreed to marry me.' He paused but drove on, intent to say what was necessary. 'We will be married tomorrow, most likely.'

His mother looked at him in avid disbelief. But at the sight of his tired, humorless face her eyes widened, and she sat straight, with her shoulders rigid and hands clasped.

'Tomorrow? Why? How is it even possible?!'

'I talked to the Bishop.'

'That was why you went to her this morning?'

'No! You know very well that Mr. Bell asked me to relate the death of her father and console her.'

'And you consoled her so well that you need to marry her tomorrow,' Mrs. Thornton said viciously.

'Mother!' He did not have the strength to deny the truth of it. It was a coarse way to put it, but he knew his mother. The trust they had between them did not require any fancy talking.

He knew that behind her bitterness she already accepted his marriage as an inevitable fact when she asked:

'Where will you marry?'

'Here, at our church. The Bishop wanted to talk to her first.'

'He did not trust you?' she asked, sardonically.

'He did. You know he cares. He knew Mr. Hale, too. He asked to come at eleven tomorrow morning'.

'I am not sure why you are doing it, though I know how long you have loved her. It does not make me happy that this penniless girl has finally accepted you only when she had nowhere else to go. But what is done is done. One good thing to be said is that your wedding will cost almost nothing compared to Fanny's.'

She thought for a moment, and then asked somewhat hotly, 'What about her beau at the station? Did it fall apart so now she is taking what she can?'

'Mother, you do not know her. I did not either, not until today. She loves me. She's never loved another.' He once again was awed at the enormity and certainty of this knowledge. 'That man at the station, he was her brother.'

Mrs. Thornton looked at him in astonishment.

'Her brother? What kind of nonsense is it? Why did we never hear of him?'

Thornton got up and walked to his study, where he reached for the old navy list from the upper shelf. He brought the book, bristling with the bookmarks for the merchant Navy ships, back to the dining room and leafed through it, until he found what he was looking for. He offered the open book to his mother.

She held it in her outstretched hands, trying to discern the small print with her aging sight. The story of the ship Orion and the disgraced Lieutenant Hale stood harshly and irrevocably on the page.

'Mutiny…' She said at last. 'Death sentence. Do you know where he is now?'

'I understand he lives in Spain.'

'He came then to see his dying mother?'

'Yes. They kept it secret, but apparently Leonards recognized him that night when he was leaving.'

'It was her brother, and yet she did not say anything in her justification when I accused her to her face of the improper behavior.'

'I do not imagine she would. You were right in one respect. She is indeed proud. But she is also noble and loyal to those she loves. She would not put her brother in danger even to save her own reputation.'

'I am surprised. And yet, if I can believe it about any woman, I would believe it about her. She has the pride and courage for that. But, oh John, she caused you so much pain! How am I to forgive her your sufferings?'

'Mother, most of that pain was caused by my own foolishness and jealousy. She attempted to talk to me and I did not listen. How she forgave me for that I will never know.'

Mrs. Thornton put her hand on his shoulder and searched his face.

'John… you look dead on your feet. You should rest. It is getting late. And tomorrow… bring her here... after. I will make sure we have a small luncheon.'

He smiled sadly at her fastidious stance, but had no strength left to argue. He said what needed to be said, and was glad she did not pose a stronger opposition. It took him considerable effort to get up to his room and he was asleep before his head hit the pillow.


	6. Walk to the Church

Once again, I would like to than an incredible beta, soccer4fc and a wonderful editor LittleBeth. This would not be possible without them.

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**The Error of Judgement.**

Part six.

Walk to the church.

She was nestling in his embrace with her head in the hollow just between his shoulder and his chest. The sudden sense of foreboding came just moments before she was torn out of his arms, and she was flying away, sucked into some cold, dark void where he could not reach her, and he was thrown back onto his lonely bed, devastated…

He woke up, panting, but his nightmare was continuing. She was not there. The bed was cold and empty; he could not find her warmth…

He woke up, panting. She was not there. She was not supposed to be there. She was in Crampton, peacefully sleeping. But unless something would go terribly wrong, she would be there tonight. A few hours more. That was it. He could perfectly well wait for a few more hours.

Thornton got up and walked to the window, pulling the curtains open. It was still very dark; the outlines of the Milton chimneys were barely seen against the first graying of the sky. Going back to sleep was useless now. He probably should get some things done before the day started.

He dressed quickly and walked out into the yard full of chilly fog. It was still too early for even the most faithful cooks in the town to start their stove fires. The key turning in the lock of his office sounded harsh and loud at this quiet hour. He lit a candle and surveyed the pile of fresh papers which had accumulated on his desk since the previous morning. At least he had time to go through them, and it would take his mind off his eager anticipation.

He worked with impatient diligence for several hours among the rising ding of the morning. Yesterday's post did not bring any hopeful news from bankers, but there was much of day-to-day correspondence to attend to, payments to complete, documents to file, and decisions to make to occupy him until the signal for the start of the work shift sounded. When Williams knocked on the door, he saw the desk cleared and his Master waiting for him with instructions for the day.

It was still rather early. Thornton went back to the house to change; he gave only a short nod to his mother, who was industriously sewing away in her usual chair in the dining room, as he left. It was not the time to talk, he thought, striding along the familiar path to Crampton. Everything that needed to be said was said yesterday; somewhere deep inside he was glad that that was already behind him. Mother was not always an easy person to deal with, but she was frank and open, and she would never go back on her word.

Mr. Lynn, on the other hand... oh, Mr. Lynn was probably the most fair and honest person he had ever met, but he did not promise Thornton anything. Was Margaret to be brought at this time of grief, two miles away from her home only to talk to the Bishop, probably in vain? Or would they come out from Milton church as man and wife? Thornton was not fretting, he was almost sure that all would be well. Even if the Bishop would refuse to help, which was now rather unlikely, there were plenty of other options. Though Margaret's aunt could come as early as tonight if she received the letter this morning, she would not be able to act against Margaret's wishes just yet, and he believed that those wishes were on his side. Getting the legal guardianship would probably take even longer than getting a marriage license. He could wait. He just wished he did not need to.

As he turned the corner and saw the house,wispy threads of smoke rising from the kitchen chimney, he felt the muscle at his jaw relaxing, and shook himself ruefully. What was he afraid of? That the house would not be there? That she had fled, and the place was empty? That it was all just another dream, that yesterday had never happened, that she was not his, that she had not promised to stay with him forever? He had dealt with his misery for a long time; he could deal with the happiness, too. It would take some time to get used to the idea.

Martha opened the door for him, slightly surprised to see him so early in the morning. She let him into the sitting room and his heart jumped at the sight of the door to the adjoining room; the room that was now sacred in his soul was now flagrantly thrown open, the bed covers ripped off, sheets in a pile on the chair. Martha gave him an apologetic smile and hastily collected the linen.

'What are you doing? Why?' he asked with the lips suddenly numb.

'Oh, Miss Hale has mentioned that her aunt might be coming,' she said, balancing the pile of sheets in her arms. 'I thought I better air the guest room and change the sheets. I will take it to the kitchen and go tell Miss Hale that you are here. The poor thing was in such distress yesterday, she sent me to bed but I could hear her crying into the wee hours.'

Of course. It was not her room. It was likely her mother's as the best and most comfortable, and was made a guest room after her passing when Bell was staying over. Her room would be upstairs. He had never seen it. It was foolish to feel cheated over it. Martha returned and with a small curtsey to him went upstairs. He heard her steps on the squeaky stairs reverberating through the flimsy house. The sound of her knocking on the door came as if she was standing next to him. He heard her voice addressing Margaret and refused to acknowledge his relief that Margaret was indeed so close. She would be down in a few minutes; all he needed was to wait a little longer.

Martha came down to tell him that Miss Hale was asleep, but answered and would come directly. He nodded distractedly from behind a random book he had picked up from the shelf to hide his impatience. He was relieved when Martha disappeared into the kitchen again.

Yet there was no sound coming from upstairs. The noises of the busily occupied servant were the only ones he could hear. Did she fall asleep again, despite Martha's urgings? He heard Martha clanking the handle of a water bucket. She probably was going to the cistern at the back of the house. It would take her some time. He should stay right here. It would be highly inappropriate to walk upstairs. He winced guiltily as the stair plank squeaked under his foot.

There were three doors, but only one of them was closed. It was not locked though, and opened to his touch. The tiny, almost Spartan room filled with the bright morning light through the open curtains struck him as essentially Margaret, made regal and feminine not by fine furniture or grandeur, but by light and by the lovely form of its inhabitant, fast asleep on the narrow bed.

He knelt by the bedside to gently kiss her awake. Her eyelashes fluttered, but the eyes remained closed. He brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face. Her pillow was still slightly damp with the tears shed at night. He lowered his head to her to kiss her again.

'John,' his own name tickled his lips. A small hand came up to stroke the side of his face and diped its the long fingers into his sideburns. He closed his eyes for a moment as the trickle of pleasure ran down his spine.

'John?' Her sleepy eyes finally opened, though not quite at the same time, but they rounded in surprise all the same. 'Mr. Thornton!'

'I thought I was John.'

'You are real! It was all real…' He saw the tears beginning to well in her eyes as she recalled the news he brought yesterday. He had no words of comfort to offer, and simply held her close to him. She took a deep breath to master her grief, still so fresh and painful and looked up at him again.

'You are here! How?'

'Martha was not able to wake you up. I thought I'd test the technique that was reported to work on sleeping beauties.'

'Martha let you up?'

"I am afraid I neglected to ask her. She was busy making the tea. Are you awake now? Shall I send her up? We need to talk.'

'Go!' she said, exasperated, 'I will be right down.'

He got up and looked back at her from the door. He'd never seen her like that before, her hair tousled from sleep and trying to escape the thick plait that held it for the night, one cheek pinker than the other. He swallowed.

"Margaret, I will go before Martha catches us. Please make haste.'

He snuck back safely well before Martha returned, and sheepishly pretended that he had been reading all this time.

'Master! Tea will be ready shortly. Is Miss Hale not down yet?'

'No.'

'Pardon me, sir, I shall go and see if Miss needs my help. I will be right back.'

'By all means,' he said, once again hiding behind the book.

Margaret came down sooner than he expected, dressed in black and seemingly composed. She was paler than he would have liked to see her, but it would be too much to expect otherwise. She was looking decidedly better than yesterday, though sad and grieved, but animated with some hope for the future. His heart swelled at the thought that this hope rested with him in her life.

As soon as Martha disappeared in the kitchen to fetch the tea, he laid down the book and came to gather her in his arms. He still could not quite believe that he could do it, that she would not shrink away in indignation, but would instead melt into his embrace with a sigh.

They were standing in dreamy silence, enjoying the new closeness. He nuzzled the hair on top of her head, but she lifted her face to him.

'John?' she asked. 'You said we needed to make haste? Why?' He postponed his answer for a moment, needing to kiss her lips.

'You asked for a half an hour notice. We need to be at Milton church at eleven o'clock.'

'You cannot be serious,' she said searching his face.

'I have never been so serious in my life.'

'Did you get a license?' she asked incredulously.

'Not quite yet. But I hope I will within an hour or two.'

'What do you mean?'

He explained to her about St. Catherine consecration and the Bishop being in town for the occasion, as well as his own long history with Mr. Lynn. She seemed uncertain.

'The Bishop? Wants to talk to me? Impossible.'

'He is a peculiar man. He knew your father. '

'He really promised he would marry us if he is satisfied?'

'So he said. Would you refuse to come then?'

'No. I did not expect to be examined today. It is all very strange. But of course I shall come. I promised, didn't I? ' she smiled archly.

'I shall go and get a cab,' he said, relieved by her compliance and flattered by her trust in him.

Martha came in with the tea tray and Margaret took her cup to the window and looked out wistfully.

'It is a fine morning. Do you think we have time to walk there?' she asked hesitantly.

'I did not think you would be strong enough. It is a long walk; do you think you can endure such fatigue?'

'It is a fine morning,' she repeated slowly, speaking to herself. She turned to him and said, 'I think I should like to walk.'

'If you wish,' he checked his watch. 'We need to leave soon, then. It is ten o'clock already.'

She nodded her understanding and went upstairs directly to put on her bonnet. He was waiting in the hall when she came down, her pale face like fine porcelain against the black of her dress.

Unthinkingly, he reached his hand as if to run the black lace of her mantilla through his fingers, like he had always wanted to do when he saw her in it, letting the back of his fingers glide over her smooth cheek. She dropped her eyes and leaned into his touch.

Smiling, he offered her his arm, and they walked out together for the first time. The morning was indeed fine; the heat of the late April sun was relieved by a fresh breeze that shifted the smoke of Milton and brought the breath of the fields beyond. At first they were silent, walking arm in arm through the morning town. He was deep in thought, content with just feeling her by his side. He liked the feel of her hand on his arm, and the light walk of hers easily falling in with his stride. Occasionally her fingers on his sleeve would move slightly, as if ensuring the reality of his arm under the cloth. He longed to reassure her and himself in a more substantial way, but it was impossible on the busy street.

'Margaret? Why did you want to walk?'

'It _is_ a fine morning. The walk is pleasant' He felt that there was more to it and waited.

She blushed. 'I... I once expressed a wish to walk to... to the church.'

'To your wedding?' Her blush was so deep he could almost feel the heat from her face.

'Yes. It was just when my cousin Edith was married. I was so tired and so annoyed with the many preparations that I wished never to go through that again,'She said, looking more uncomfortable than such an innocent wish warranted. He waited, but nothing more came.

'Margaret, you seem unhappy about it,' he prompted.

'It is silly. I was silly. I am not ashamed of what I said then, but it brought me some mortification later.' She smiled, "I was accused of insincerity. This is probably my way of amending it.'

'To whom did you say it?' he guessed.

She glanced at him and dropped her eyes.

'To Mr. Henry Lennox, my cousin's brother-in-law.'

'He took it as encouragement?'

Her "Yes" came nearly inaudibly and she did not lift her head.

They walked in silence for a while.

'It was foolish of me,' she said finally.

'Why? As you say, there is nothing to be ashamed of.'

'I did not want to upset you.'

'You could have before, but now you are walking to the church with me and not with Mr. Henry Lennox. It is he who should be jealous, along with the rest of men in England. All I can feel toward him is compassion and admiration for his good sense and fine taste.'

He kept looking resolutely forward to let her recover from embarrassment, but from the corner of his eye he could see that she looked at him in wonder and then turned away to hide a smile.

'Besides,' he added, 'I rest secure knowing that you have no more funds left over to buy out any more men.'

He was finally rewarded with her laugh.

Thornton was glad that in this hour of the morning the streets were not over crowded. They did not meet many people they knew until they reached the church. The morning service was over and by now the tardiest of parishioners were filing out of the tall doors. Thornton and Margaret stood aside to let them pass, unnoticed by most.

The church was empty and echoing when they walked in, but Mr. Tully welcomed them with a warm smile and kind words. Thornton did not notice the Bishop until he stepped into the slanting column of light falling from the high window. This time he met the piercing gaze of his old teacher and held it while making the necessary introductions. He had one advantage: the Bishop seemed mildly surprised. He walked closer to Thornton while Mr. Tully took Margaret aside to say a few words of consolation.

'John. I am surprised, I admit. You have never mentioned… well, from what you told me yesterday I expected a lady, oh, endowed with the grace of the soul rather than worldly attractions, a pious thing probably of the age of thirty…' He smiled slightly at Thornton's chuckle. 'And now you bring this glorious creature, why, she looks just like a Spanish Infanta.'

Thornton looked at the proud and serene form of Margaret, trying to see her as a stranger would, and marveled again at her great regal beauty.

'It is probably the mantilla,' he supplied helpfully.

The Bishop looked at him incredulously and shook his head in resignation at the callousness of today's young people. 'I would still like to talk to her, though I have no more doubts about your motivations anymore; I, however feel responsible to the memory of her father to ensure hers.'

He crossed to Mr. Tully and Margaret and smiled benevolently.

'Miss Hale, if Mr. Tully would be so kind as to let us use his vestry,' he said kindly, and the good vicar smiled and nodded in his assent. 'would you speak to me for a few minutes?'

Margaret gave Thornton a brief worried glance and followed the Bishop through the tall oak doors.

Left alone with Mr. Tully in an empty, echoing cavern of the old church Thornton felt excluded and unneeded. Perhaps Mr. Tully felt it even more acutely. It was, after all, his own church where he was left behind closed doors like a reprimanded child. With an admirable effort he broke the uncomfortable silence and offered Thornton a tour of new improvements to the church he had recently undertaken. He went on with forced cheerfulness, describing the beauties of the old architecture, but Thornton was too preoccupied to listen to the story he already knew so well. He was, however, grateful for the effort of conversation; he himself did not feel capable of it just at the moment. What took them so long? Whatever could they be speaking about? What if he refused them the marriage for today and demanded the established wait?

As the clock chimed noon, the church door opened a fraction wider and Mrs. Thornton quietly slid into the chapel. Mr. Tully, with an apologetic nod to Thornton, went to her side. After another moment one more figure made an appearance, as Nicholas Higgins shyly stepped in as well. He was in his work clothes with a bit of black crepe sewn in. Thornton was strangely glad to see him and came to greet his reluctant ally. Higgins shrugged in his embarrassment and said that he learned about Margaret's loss from Mary and wanted to say a word of condolence to Miss Margaret.

'But how did you know to come here?' asked Thornton, quite puzzled.

'Missus here told me. Came right to me this morning at the mill, and said that I can drop here on the noon break. She knew that I would not want to miss it. Fine lady, she is. Talks gruff, but has soft side in her, just like you. Said what you plan here with Miss Margaret. I was glad to hear it, too. Came close to losing my wager, I did.'

'What wager?' Thornton was suspecting that he missed a large part of this conversation

'Aye. See, I put a stake that you would come to an understanding before May. Fellows who lost their Christmas bet were gloating all last month. They will laugh from the other side of the mouth now.'

'Wait. There is a wager on this? People _expected_ us to marry?'

Higgins looked at him in astonishment.

'They are not blind nor stupid, you know. Whenever you went to see the poor old parson there was always someone to watch if you came back glad or gloomy. People knew it was better to stay away if the news were bad, and more than one application for a rise was lucky if you came back smiling the night previous. Almost all put a penny or two into the wager, even the girls from the carding room.'

'Who held it?' groaned Thornton, getting angry at himself and at the thorough scrutiny of his actions by his own workers.

'Master, I am not telling.'

'So you put a penny in, too?'

Higgins looked at him in deep satisfaction.

'I put a shilling. Will bring me upward from two pounds, it will. They were betting against me like vultures for the last two weeks. Mary is going to get a new dress, she is, and the little ones are in for a treat.'

'A shilling.'

'Aye. Was a sure bet, too, 'cept I dinnuh know wha' tookyou so long. You are not a man to let what you want slip through your fingers, and it was shame to see Miss Margaret pining away. Ha. Most wagers were on when, not if you would go for it.'

Thornton did not have time to answer, as the door to the vestry opened. They all turned, to see Margaret coming out quite flustered, and the bishop following her with an unreadable face.


	7. Mrs Thornton

Hey, new chapter! Umm… Yes, I would not be able to do it without incredible editor soccer4fc, LittleBeth-S. I would also like to thank Kayran for all the help she was able to give so far, even if real life demands become overwhelming.

Anyway, here it goes:

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**Error of Judgement**

By Ikuko

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Part 7. Mrs. Thornton.

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Thornton looked at his old teacher with heavy anticipation. The man had a theatrical talent, probably essential for any good public speaker, but at the moment his indecipherable expression was torture for Thornton.

'As amusing as it is to see you nervous, John, and a rare occasion, too…'

Thornton had an ally though: Margaret, noticing his tense face, gave him a little nod of comfort. Thornton signed with relief.

'Sir you can make anyone nervous.'

The bishop probably sensed the little communication and smiled

'Why, thank you. I consider it a great advantage in my work. You, however, were always a little harder than most, even as a young boy back at Rugby. Except for that occasion when the goat inadvertently turned up in Mr. Andrews' wardrobe…' the Bishop raised his hand to stop Thornton from objecting. 'Yes, I remember, you said it got lost.'

Thornton could feel the disbelieving glances of Margaret and Mr. Tully on himself, but he held his eyes steadily trained on Bishop's face. The Bishop smiled again warmly. 'In any case, there is no point in games. John, I admit, I could not quite give you the credit yesterday.'

'And today?' asked Thornton warily.

'Today I don't believe you gave enough credit to this young lady,' smiled the Bishop.

Thornton persisted:

'Will you marry us?'

'Yes. I have every reason to believe that your mutual devotion is steady and of long standing. However much you have stumbled along your way, your goal was true, and I would be honoured to welcome you to your new state of matrimony. Well, let us get started, I have issued the license,' he waved a sheet of paper filled with his slanted script. 'I am sure Reverend Tully is kind enough to take care of the rest of registration formalities. Mr. Tully, I think you can bring the registry now.' Mr. Tully disappeared in the vestry and returned with the large book in dark binding. While he was busy entering the names of the new couple, the Bishop continued conversationally:

'I suppose there is some justice. Take heart. Consider your financial troubles are a token compensation for what you gain here, so that other mortals would not be tempted with excessive envy.' Thornton grinned wryly, while Mrs. Thornton pulled herself up in haughty disapproval. However, she refrained from saying anything.

'Do you have rings?' the Bishop asked suddenly.

'No.' He had not thought about it. He looked at Margaret from the corner of his eye, but she seemed perfectly unperturbed.

'Ah. Is there anyone to give the bride away?'

Thornton knew his old teacher. Everything was a test, the old man's sharp eyes managed to see the reactions of everyone. They did not miss Mr. Tully's face arranging into a kindly smile of benevolence in preparation to accept the charge, and how it soured slightly when Margaret turned to Nicholas Higgins in his worn and stained fustian; nor did it go unnoticed Higgins' embarrassment and near-panic, that forced him to retreat along the passage from the unexpected honour.

Margaret did not persist; a new thought knitted her brow and she turned to look at Thornton in earnest contemplation. She seemed to reach her decision:

'No. I will hide behind no man. It was my choice, my love and respect that have given me to Mr. Thornton. I will not burden anyone with the pretence of giving me away and I wish for no greater sign of the union than the right to be by his side and bear his name.'

Mrs. Thornton's expression of haughty disdain slid into thoughtfulness and the Bishop almost grinned at Thornton.

'You do not need to look so smug, John', he said. 'I am sure you did nothing to deserve it. Just be grateful for your luck and do not crow over less fortunate. '

The full realization of the reality of the events suddenly hit Thornton as he was standing by Margaret's side in front of his own old teacher, answering his questions in a somewhat hoarse voice and hearing her replies in tones so composed and serene it was as if she was a hostess of a formal evening. She was here, by his side, promising to stay there forever. Only yesterday morning he was tormented by doubts, jealousy, and utter misery. And today - everything had changed in less than a day! He knew beyond doubt that she loved him, as much as he loved her. He had no rival in her affections. He knew the taste of her lips and the smell of her hair. He felt that he was holding his happiness as if some fragile, sparkling vessel, afraid that it would slip out of his hands, break and disappear in a rain of bright, sharp shards. But for now it seemed to be holding. Mr. Lynn smiled at them benevolently, and Mr. Tully advanced his congratulations. It was done, they were married. This woman was his and he was hers for as long as they lived. No one would be able to take her away from him now.

He searched for some ways of expressing his gratitude to the Bishop, but the old man waved off his words of thanks.

'I hope I will see both of you in Manchester soon. It was a pleasure. I would really like to renew our old friendship and to get to know your good lady better. But it is a long way home, John. I have to make haste if I am to see my own family for dinner tonight. I wish well to both of you.'

The bishop shook hands with both Thornton and Margaret, and bowed to the elder Mrs. Thornton in reply to her civil farewell. They saw him to the carriage, and earned some surprised looks from passers-by. There would be rumors tomorrow, but for all he cared now they could announce it from every tower and city corner.

His mother coughed discretely to attract their attention and started walking toward Marlborough Mills, implying that they were to follow. Higgins, who was staying well at the back of all the proceedings, excused himself saying that his break was almost over. He slammed his hat back on his head with an air of great determination, intending to walk off, but then Margaret came to him and kissed his rough and not at all clean cheek. He was deflated instantly and muttered something about wishing joy to both of them. They watched him hurrying down the street, his ears flaming red.

'John?' Margaret asked with some hesitation.

'Yes, Mrs. Thornton?'

She smiled.

'It will take time for me to get used to that name. It has been too firmly associated with your mother for so long.'

'Yet that is your name now.'

'Yes, it is, but I called you John and you were not averse to calling me Margaret so far.'

'I love calling your Margaret. But let me savor the idea of you now being. Mrs. John Thornton for a little while.' He said, watching her blush. 'So what did you want to ask?'

'Ah. About that goat, was it really lost?'

'Of course it was,' said Thornton somewhat irritably. 'When Solton and I shut it in the closet, it did not know where to go.'

'You did not.'

'It was a good ripe old buck,' Thornton reminisced happily. 'Old Andrews' robes were stinking for weeks.' She was still laughing when they came to the Marlborough gates.

His mother was true to her word. A small but almost formal luncheon served for three was in the dining room when they came in. The conversation was strained but civil, and he was at a loss for how to break the ice that was creeping in from every side. As it happened, he did not have time for it, either. Before they finished the meal, Williams was announced in the drawing room. Thornton excused himself and left the two women he cared for most alone in wary silence. Yet the news Williams brought could not wait.

The American bank that was supposed to transfer the payment from a buyer did not answer their request. It was not known now if the debt could be recovered at all. Even worse, the cotton supplier they had used for years sent a letter demanding the payment for the shipment in cash, no longer trusting in mill's credit. Both letters arrived in the same morning mail, and now Thornton needed to sort out this new calamity. There was no money readily available; all was secured for the next week's payroll. They always bought on credit, Thornton's word being as good as gold. Losing that was unacceptable. He needed all his ingenuity to come up with a solution. He could dig into his last reserves, but he did not want to risk it without some insurance. He would have to talk to Latimer sooner than next week. The banker should be back tomorrow night; Thornton could talk to him on Saturday before the bank would close operations for the day. So far the banker was very accommodating, perhaps more than Thornton would have expected. It was not out of the common way, but there was a chance that Latimer was motivated by more than a mere chance of future profits. He seemed to look with a friendly eye every time his daughter and Thornton happened to be in the same company.

Miss Latimer was not a bad girl as they go. He always thought of her as a better polished and less sincere version of Fanny. In his own way Thornton was very fond of Fanny, and it helped him to deal with Miss Latimer in a brotherly way. She was good natured enough, just one of so many Fannies of the world. Her increasingly heavy hints bothered him a little. It would be a relief to be known as a married man and free from all the games on the part of the likes of Miss Latimer. He would never need to feel awkward again faced with mindless but pointed flirtation.

Thornton hoped that Latimer's business dealings were not materially affected by his desire to marry off a daughter. If the banker would not extend the loan, he would be in a deep trouble. After such a rejection, the next loan would be possible only at exorbitant interest. All hope now was on the deal that was coming through the American bank, and the payment still had not come through.

It took him more than two hours to resolve this new crisis and to assess the day's working of the mill. At least they would meet the latest order. It was a small consolation in the face of many deadlines that they had to miss because of the strike.

When he returned, his mother and his bride were still in the dining room, though all traces of luncheon were long removed. Mother sat in her usual working chair and he was mildly surprised not to see any work in her hands. He listened to the conversation for a few moments with growing dismay. On the brighter side, it was conducted in the same trustful curt way that his mother used to talk to him, and rarely to anyone else.

Though he could see the rigid set of his mother's shoulders, he was pleasantly surprised when she addressed the younger woman "Margaret". Thornton certainly hoped that she would, as time passed, but to hear it so soon was a good sign.

On the downside, the theme of their conversation was less than pleasing to Thornton. They were talking about Margaret temporarily returning to Crampton, before moving in permanently. He did not like that at all. He was reasonable enough to realize that Margaret walked here only in the dress she had on, bringing nothing but a small purse that could hardly accommodate anything more than a handkerchief, but surely there could have been another way.

'Certainly Margaret's things can be sent for!' he interjected, trying not to show his disappointment.

'Martha does not know where everything is,' Margaret thought aloud. 'Dixon will not return until tomorrow morning. There is much to do; returning to Crampton is unavoidable sooner or later. I cannot simply come here and send for my things. I will have to talk to Dixon, and understand what has to be auctioned and what needs to be moved. I would like you to help me sort through Father's books and decide what to sell and what your library can accommodate.'

"I am sure it can wait for a few hours, until Dixon returns.'

'I suppose so. However there are more urgent obligations. I have not yet written anyone about the change in my situation. I feel I must write my aunt and Mr. Bell as soon as can be.'

'Then you should to do it now, before the post is collected; you will miss it if you would go all the way to Crampton. No doubt you can write your letters here, it is your home, Margaret. I am sure you are welcome to use the small bureau in the drawing room.'

His mother looked at him questioningly, but did not say anything. She got up to precede Margaret to drawing room. But as soon as she left the room Thornton caught his new bride by the hand and pulled her in for a brief kiss. They were married for more than three hours now, and yet he had to struggle to be alone with her even for a moment!

Margaret, looking slightly dazzled, gave him a shy smile and disappeared after his mother. He walked to the window, trying to collect his thoughts. His mother's work basket was on the floor by her work chair, the embroidery hoop tucked carelessly on top. He noticed that there was an inch-long tear in the delicate fabric; as if the silk thread was pulled so hard it cut through it like a knife. Yet the conversation of the two women when he came was as civil and friendly as he could have wished for under the circumstances. What had happened here while he was away?

Curious, he drifted toward the drawing room. Mother had opened the bureau for her new daughter-in-law and apparently provided her with writing things, nodding away quite thanks. She moved away, but not before suddenly reaching her hand up and adjusting the corner on Margaret's white lacy collar that got somehow turned up during their brief interlude behind the dining room door. Thornton felt that his feet were suddenly glued to the floor. Mother never did it to anyone but himself, not even to Fanny, ever since his sister learned to dress herself. He really needed to know what happened in that dining room in his absence.

Mother passed him on her way back to the dining room, her head held high. He turned and followed her, leaving Margaret to her letters.

'Mother?'

'Yes, John.' She said in a tone of voice that discouraged excessive curiosity.

He did not know how to ask her, any direct question would be unthinkable. Instead, he told her about his dealings and the troublesome letters that arrived this afternoon. They quickly returned to their usual, brisk and honest way of talking, discussing the possible avenues of actions and retrenching. Mother picked up her work, and continued to stitch busily as if no tear was ever there. Indeed, as he looked after a while, there was a fresh new leaf curling along the place where the tear used to be. Not a word was said about the interesting events of the morning, or the new family member in the other room, until during some pause in the conversation mother reached down for her scissors in the basket, and while her face was down and he could not see her expression, said:

'I wished for a Milton girl for you, but she is as good as any of them. She has her spirit and her own mind. Just give me some time to get used to it.'

He knew better than to ask anything further. Whatever happened while he was away, was between the two of them, and seemed to break down some walls that divided the two women he loved the most. They must be left to sort out the rest by themselves, and he could trust their hearts and generosity to get it right.

The silence was poised crisp and fragile between them. They did not need to see each other faces to feel the closeness between mother and son. It incorporated all the trust and reliance on each other that they accumulated over the years, and slowly, like a growing tree, shaped itself over the new events. It could take a long time, but it would absorb all changes and become stronger.

The silence was interrupted by the bell ringing downstairs. Mother looked at him questioningly: they had not expected any visitors. A bell ringing at a time like that might have meant more trouble at the mill. Thornton set his jaw in apprehension of more bad news.

The voice suddenly heard from the hall was not Williams, though. It was Fanny in one of her more anxious moods. She entered in a flurry of ostentatious silks and plunged in without any small talk:

'Mother! Did you hear the rumours flying around? John? Do you know what they are saying?'

'No, dear,' said Mrs. Thornton mildly. 'What distressed you so?'

'Mother, you will never believe it. They are saying that John has married that Miss Hale! Today! You would think that his sister would know about any such thing first! I was trying to dissuade them, but you know the tittle-tattle, you cannot make them stop! Can you imagine such nonsense! And Miss Hale of all people! Really!' Fanny huffed in a most indignant way. Thornton and his mother exchanged an exasperated glance, but the matter could not be kept secret any further. Mrs. Thornton got up and walked to her daughter, laying a placating hand on her sleeve.

'My dear,' she started, but was interrupted by the return of Margaret from the drawing room, ready letters in hand. She was a little confused to find Fanny's unexpected presence there, but bravely faced her outraged sister-in-law.

'Good afternoon, Mrs. Watson.'

Fanny was not long at a loss for words.

'Miss Hale? You are here? So it is true. John, mother, why did you not say anything?'

'Fanny, be sensible. There could not be much of announcement. Mr. Hale has passed away only last week, a public wedding in such time is unthinkable.'

'But… But I am John's sister! You could have had at least the courtesy of telling me!'

Thornton came to his sister and gently laid his hand on her arm.

'Fanny, calm yourself. I am sorry I did not tell you earlier. Will you forgive me?'

It took a little consoling but eventually Fanny was cajoled out of her offended mood and started to realize the benefits of being at the centre of the newest talk in town. She needed to know all the details that no one really wanted to divulge. She tried several different approaches to wheedle out all the interesting particulars, but eventually despaired in the three sticks in the mud in front of her. Neither her brother, mother nor her new sister-in-law were amenable neither to the pleas of the curious kin, nor horrors of shame if the scandalously rushed wedding was not properly explained to local gossips. Poor Fanny had to resort to the lesser joys of coaxing her mother to have a wedding dinner at the very least, family only. If ordering the new clothes and parading them in front of all her acquaintances was not to be had, she would at least be able to tell that she was part of such exclusive and mysterious event as her brother's secret wedding.

Mrs. Thornton prided herself for always being prepared for any eventuality that her son's business or his friends' visits might bring at any time. Yet a dinner for five would require an additional dish or two, so she rose to give the instructions to the kitchen. When she was almost at the door, a new idea struck her and she turned to her new daughter-in- law.

"Mrs. Thornton,' she said in a rather formal and haughty way, "I expect you are to step into the responsibilities of the lady of the house from now on. Would you like to join me in these duties?'

Margaret looked startled for a moment but with her usual composed demeanor met the hardened eyes of the older woman.

'I am sure that there is much to learn,' she said quietly. 'I do not expect to be able to replace your in the fullness of your duties right away. I would appreciate if you could continue as you were at least until I would understand enough of the house to be of real use.'

The older Mrs. Thornton, who was not prepared for such mildness, only shrugged in response. Thornton felt her soreness over the change in the position: to all the world, Margaret was now the lady of the house that his mother had ruled unchallenged for so long and cared for dearly. To her, Margaret was but an intruder, who in one sweep took away her son's affections and the command of her own home. Yet Margaret was able to feel it as acutely as he did, and offered the older lady a chance to retain her position without refusing her own new duties.

The two women looked at each other for some moments, the older one with defiance, and the younger with understanding. Thornton sensed that some reluctant truce had been reached while he was away, one to which he would never have admittance. He looked after their retreating figures with strange curiosity.

Left alone with his disgruntled sister, he found refuge in busying himself with dispatching the letters that Margaret had prepared for her family. As he rang the bell for a servant, Fanny decided that she also had a duty to write some notes as soon as can be, to secure her privilege of admittance to the most intriguing mystery in Milton. She demanded writing materials, as well. Though such a jealous strive to be at the head of town rumours annoyed Thornton, her occupation suited him very well indeed.

'It is too bad that Watson is away,' she fretted 'John, if you would have told me earlier, it would be so much more appropriate if he was here.'

Thornton said quiet thanks for not telling Fanny earlier. The situation was uncomfortable enough without the presence his somewhat silly and pompous brother-in-law. As soon as Fanny immersed herself in her trifling news, he quietly stepped out in the hall and waited at the bend of the staircase.

In a very short while he heard light quick steps and reached out to grasp his wife's hand. If she was startled, she did not show it in more than a quick intake of breath before she fluttered into his arms. They both knew that they did not have much time before the servants and Mrs. Thornton would return, but these stolen moments held a childlike charm for them.

'How was your inauguration into the lady of household?' he whispered when their lips separated. She scrunched her nose:

'I do not think I will be taken seriously any time soon. I think it will make everyone happy if I would be a figurehead for as long as possible. Your mother seemed quite pleased with my ignorance.'

'I am glad you can bear it with such good humor.'

'It is true, as you well know. It is her home. She has every right to be unsettled with an intrusion of a stranger. I wish I could let her know that…'

They were interrupted by the sound of steps on the bottom of the staircase and made it to the dining room before his mother ascended the stairs. Fanny looked up at them from her notes with suspicion, but did not say anything as Mrs. Thornton entered in her usual solemn manner.

The dinner itself was more a formal than cheerful affair. Both Mmes. Thornton were civil but spoke as little as politeness permitted. Fanny's chatter was so plentiful that little effort of conversation was required from the other ladies indeed. She had news for her mother and advice for her new sister-in-law; she had to tell everyone about the new paper she used for her drawing room decoration and the new furniture she was ordering. Thornton rarely before appreciated his sister idle chats as much as he did that evening: trivial as it was, it had the advantage of an endless supply of trite subjects that eased the awkwardness of the meal. So it was with better graces and warmer feeling that he saw her to her carriage at the conclusion of the evening. He stood on the stairs of the house for some minutes after she drove off, enjoying the remaining warmth of the spring night and reflecting on the events of the day.

He was on his way back to the dinning room when he felt a tag on his sleeve. He turned to see Margaret's shy and blushing face. She seemed to begin saying something, but he gathered her in his arms once again and pulled her to him for a kiss. Was she waiting for him as he was waiting for her? He did not care at the moment.

'I… I think it is getting late,' she said at last a little breathlessly. 'I should be going too.'

'Please stay. You are not a guest. This is your home.'

'I will have to talk to Dixon tomorrow.'

'The London train does not arrive until ten in the morning. You will have plenty of time. You can go after breakfast. Don't leave your husband alone on our wedding night.'

'You make me explain such awkward things, John. I did not bring anything with me to stay the night. Not even a nightgown.'

He himself felt the heat of his gaze as his eyes bore into Margaret's.

'Oh…' was the only thing she managed to say when she understood his meaning, and she blushed so much that even her ears were glowing bright red.

'Was that your only concern?' he asked with a gentle mocking.

'Oh, be sensible. I am not sure I can… I would need a maid,' she looked into his uncomprehending eyes and decided to make it plain: 'Martha helped me dress this morning, and she does not believe I am properly dressed without three dozen pins all over me.'

'As a former draper's assistant, I resent that implication.' He said it earnestly, but spoiled the effect by grinning. She giggled, still quite flushed.

'Please stay, Margaret.'

She smiled, looking at him bashfully:

'You ask like a child for indulgence. I am your wife, John, I…'

She did not have a chance to finish, because he captured her lips again for a quick kiss.

Childish, she said. Indeed he felt younger than he could remember in years. The strain of the morning, the struggle of the afternoon, and the awkwardness of the evening, all that fell off of him, and his world became as simple and happy as in his long forgotten childhood.

Laughing, he caught her hand, and stepped backwards, pulling her after him.

'Come,' he said in the merry tone of voice he had not used since he was nine, 'I will show you my room.'


End file.
